Dark Desire
by tklivory
Summary: Jorath Amell did not seek to become a Grey Warden, but now that he is, he will not let anything stand in the way of his true goals. Not even a fascinating assassin from Antiva... (NOTE: stories are not chronological)
1. Secrets Revealed

Jorath lay flat on the large boulder at the outskirts of their camp, gazing up at the stars. He smiled to himself, imagining their counterparts reflected against the dark surface of the Black City in the Fade, stars that, so far as he could determine, only he could see. _I wonder which one is Kaavith's soul? Perhaps my dear mentor had such a black heart, his star does not shine as do the others... _

He sought the star to which he always gave his greeting. _Greetings, Narinia, little sister. How go things in the Fade?_ He shifted, tugging at his robe to prevent discomfort. _ I'm still a Warden, little sister. I've seen more of the world now in person than we ever dared dream. Have you been watching, there in the back of my mind?_ A chuckle quickly shook him as his hands reached above his head to extend into a feline stretch. _Sometimes I feel you there, peeking out, you know. It is... comforting._

A rustle to the side caught his attention, distracting him from his dialogue with Narinia, and he smiled. "Going into town for a bit of fun?" he inquired. "I've heard that the Pearl can be entertaining."

A smooth chuckle answered, getting closer, before Zevran finally came into his peripheral vision. The elf had taken care with his appearance, though perhaps not in the way most people would recognize. Rather than making himself look immaculate, he had arranged his appearance to look slightly, but not _too_, disheveled, and perhaps a little careworn and haggard. "I prefer not to pay for companionship, my friend," the Antivan replied. "But, yes, I do intend a 'bit of fun.'" His eyebrow raised. "Care to join me? The night is long and the men are lithe, supple, and _quite _well dressed, at least, where I intend to go."

Jorath laughed. "No, you know I don't enjoy cities. All those souls around..." He fought off a shiver. "Go enjoy your game of 'poor little abused elf servant that needs a sympathetic bosom.' And make sure to get her shirt, if it comes to that." He smirked. "Although why you persist in trying to convince me you go into town for anything other than a woman is beyond me."

"Ah, but one day perhaps you will believe me, no? And then I can have my wicked way with you as we know to be all but inevitable," the Antivan laughed. "I shall be back before dawn... probably."

Jorath waved him away with a smile and a last Good luck upon his lips, then returned his attention to the stars, talking with his sister as he waited for a sufficient amount of time to pass. Once he knew himself to be in the clear, he slid off the boulder, his robe riding up only slightly from many evenings of practice, and made his way to the main part of the camp. He nodded in acknowledgment of his companions, enjoying the flinch in Alistair's face and the embarrassed flush in Leliana's as he moved towards his goal. The empty spot where Sten had once stood didn't bother him in the slightest, glad as he was to be rid of the chaos behind that smooth facade. He felt Morrigan's eyes upon him, measuring him in all their golden glory, but he heeded his sister's warning with that one. _One day, I will know_all_ of what you want from me, you enchanting witch. Then, possibly, I will let you submit to me. _He smiled._ Ah, what a glorious night that will be._

He arrived at his chosen destination, a tent from which the faint aroma of leather emanated. He paused outside the entrance for a moment, pulling forth his sister, asking her the question. When she replied in the affirmative, he carefully knelt in front of the seemingly innocuous tent flap, his left hand removing a small squeaking object from a special pouch he kept at his waist as his right hand removed a small vial of red liquid from a special hidden pocket in his collar.

Quickly removing the stopper, he closed his eyes as the heady scent of blood struck his nose, momentarily giving him pause. Shaking his head slightly, he summoned a small channel of magic through the blood, causing a small tear in the Veil to appear. A small white light sprang up, a light with eyes and curiosity. He smiled at it, coaxing it to step over to his side of the Veil, then seized control of it, brutally pushing the tiny spirit into its new cage, the terrified mouse he held in his left hand, observing the abomination thus created with a clinical gaze. _ It will do for my purposes,_he decided.

The abomination, comprised of one part fringe denizen of the Fade, one part terrified brown mouse - and thus, quite simple to control, as long as one had the augmentation of blood - whimpered as it hit the leather and linen, the sound the only indication that it had activated the traps Zevran had left in place. It spasmed as it hit the ground, twitching spasmodically as the contact poison and darts did their dirty work. Smiling to himself, Jorath took the limp and fading abomination into his hands and pulled the last spark of its magic into himself - breathing deeply as he did so to strictly control the wave of pleasure - as the last vestiges of its corporeal form ceased to exist.

_Marvelous._

Brushing the dust from his hands he stood and pushed through the tent flap. Zevran's tent had, thus far, been spared his analysis, mostly due to his natural deference for a fellow killer, but curiosity had finally gotten the better of him and, at his sister's prodding, he had planned his invasion during Zevran's next night on the town, the only time that Zevran was not watching Jorath.

Settling himself on the tent floor, he looked at Zevran's belongings, his eyes immediately going to the leather backpack that Zevran always carried personally. The fact that he left it behind in his tent surrounded by traps when he indulged his carnal nature only increased Jorath's curiosity about it. He reached out and hovered his hands over the bulky bag, waiting for his sister to declare it safe to open. When she did, he swiftly peeled back the flap, shifting the bag to take advantage of the small light ball he summoned with but a thought.

Within, as he had rather expected, was a meticulously clean and well maintained portmanteau of poisons and antidotes, carefully labeled in obscure marks, mostly likely Crow scratchings. His hands gently caressed the glass vials, removing each one to sniff at the contents, identifying each one readily, even the more exotic mixes. Oh, perhaps he didn't know the particular names of the concoctions, but he knew how to craft each one, expertise gained from long nights in the Tower's Storage area, using his pilfered key to gain access to all _manner _of items normally forbidden to apprentices.

Convinced that this could not be all the assassin concealed from him, he carefully closed and removed the portmanteau from the large bag, and carefully began to probe the depths of the bag. He found only two items, both well concealed behind darted compartments, though he only required clever fingers and not magic to avoid the poisoned points. He held the two items in his hand, considering them.

One was a carefully folded up piece of paper, the other a lock of soft hair black as night . He brought it to his nose and sniffed. Blood. He knew that scent anywhere. His other hand gently brushed the hair, feeling it, sifting through it, comparing the strands to the hair he had analyzed over the years. _Female. Likely an elf. _

Satisfied that he had answered all he possibly could about the hair from what he currently possessed, he turned his attention to the piece of paper. Opening it, he found only two terse sentences. _ You are in his confidence. Why are they not dead yet?_At the bottom of the paper was emblazoned the silhouette of a crow.

He felt the cold metal of a blade on his neck.

"Ah, Zev," he said calmly, folding the piece of paper back to its original complicated configuration. "You're back later than I expected." The blade didn't waver. He smelled the magebane with which it had been anointed, could picture the utter concentration on the man's face, along with the finely honed calculation he knew so well. Carefully returning hair and paper to their original locations, he inquired coolly, "Did you have a pleasant trip to the crossroads and back? Which poor merchant's wife did you steal a shirt from this time?"

Now the blade moved, closer against his skin, though the point did not yet cut through. "You took my bait I see." There was no smugness in the tone, only a subtle question. _Why do such a thing if you knew what I intended?_

Jorath shrugged slightly, not enough to move the blade. "A baited trap is only as cunning as its prey." He turned his head to look at the elf, deliberately causing the blade to slice through his skin. The blood began trickling down his neck. "Have I not always treated you as an equal because you, unlike the others, understand the necessity that is death?" Even as the magebane began to take hold, the power of the mage's spilled blood filled the interior of the tent. "Have I not always told you of all my plans because you, unlike the others, understand that pain must sometimes precede death?" He took the warp and weft of the blood's magic, weaving subtly, invoking the power of repetition, the power of the pattern of _three _in words spoken. "Have I not always told you of my desires because you, unlike the others, share them as well?"

The suggestion - for that is all it was, a suggestion of control - filled the air around them, weighing on Zevran. He felt the assassin fight back, felt his hand tighten on the knife, felt the tension against the blade. He knew the instant that Zevran won the battle - as he had hoped, though this did not mean that Jorath had in any way made the task of breaking his spell simple - and regain full control of his own mind again.

The knife withdrew. "You... you must win a lot of money in Wicked Grace," the assassin said, a look of grudging admiration in his eyes as he cleaned and sheathed his dagger. "You just bluffed with no cards in your hand."

Jorath smiled, the grin tugged askew by the grotesque scar that radiated around his left eye. "I always hold all of the cards. It is usually not until too late that my opponents figure out that I have been playing chess all along."

"So," the elf assassin murmured, "where does this leave us? I have seen the way you look at the others. You view them the same as the Maestros view all their underlings: mere toys to play with, vessels of potential, but no more. I saw what you did to the Templars, to the Dalish... You have no tolerance for fools or the blind." His eyes glittered as he looked at the tattoo between Jorath's eyebrows. "You chose the design of the black widow well, though you are male and not female. Quite the _venomous _fellow, aren't you?" Turning slightly, he tied the tent flaps, ensuring none could enter, or, for that matter, leave. "And what am I, in your world of power and control, mmm? What place can such as I have?"

The mage smiled. "You understand that world far better than any other I have yet met. I offer the option to be a part of it, rather than at its mercy, should you so desire."

A hand stole up and traced the radiating lines of the scar on his face lightly, sensually. "Ah, that word... _desire_... quite _persuasive_, I think." The other hand came up, caressing hair the color of flame and blood in one place. "I learned the lesson of that _lie _before we met, that desire can be something else, that it can be... innocent, or without pain..." He moved closer. "My eyes have been so opened, if you so_desire _to keep them in such a position."

Slowly Jorath kissed his own fingertips, then placed them on Zevran's lips. "Have I not said that you share my desires as well?" A possessive look passed over his face as Zevran closed his eyes and _shivered_. "But the time for talk, well, it has now passed. Now is the time to act upon this... _desire_."

Although no further words were exchanged that night, still much was communicated. From his little sister, of course, he hid none of it, to her endless delight.

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_One of my secondary characters, Jorath is both fun and creepy to write. If you'd like more stories of him, let me know!_


	2. The Bound

Zevran stood at the door, back to the inside, trying to ignore what was occurring behind him. It was not the blood he had an issue with, mind - he was an assassin, after all. But the things his lover had summoned...

He heard one of them now, the snapping hiss causing his hackles to rise, and he eased the odd sensation by looking out the door to make sure no one would become inquisitive. Granted, this little back alley of Denerim was known to attract those who were _incurious_ rather than _curious_, so in a way he was paying lip service. Still, for all his thick skin to killing, the horrors of the Fade still made an impression.

When Jorath had approached him for this little outing, he'd initially been looking forward to spending some time alone with him. As they'd moved through the streets of Denerim, however, he noticed something a bit... discomfiting, even for him. The guards, for example, when they caught sight of Jorath's scarred and burned face, would without exception turn around and walk away. The children, who before had flinched back and run away from that same face, now ran up to him, begging for 'more sweets'. And when a knight had approached Jorath and started blustering something about Ostagar, the flame-haired Warden merely smiled at the man. That's all - a small, secret smile - and abruptly the knight turned and walked away. If Zevran weren't so skilled at sleight of hand, he wouldn't have noticed Jorath adjust his sleeve as he smiled, and if he weren't so good at catching fear, he would have missed the knight's ring of pale flesh around his neck.

He said nothing about the incidents. He'd long since learned that when Jorath wanted Zevran to know something, he would bring up the matter himself. As it was, as they had continued through the streets, he'd noticed that Jorath's muttering was a bit more pronounced than usual, and he'd frowned when he realized the man was talking to his 'sister' again. Another anxiety to file away for later scrutiny...

So it was that by the time they arrived at their destination - a run-down little shack buried deep in the back streets of Denerim - he was perfectly content to stand door guard. Perhaps it wasn't romantic, but it was... preferable, at the moment.

He pulled the door a little more shut as another cry rang through the shanty behind him, accompanied by a sound he knew all too well: breaking bone. Distracted from the alley outside, he turned his head slightly so he could pay more attention to what was going on. Words filtered through from the back, barely detectable, but audible to someone who listened carefully.

"Yes, this is him, little sister. No, he's not as terrible as he'd like to think he is." Another sound of flame, and a gibber that could not _possibly_ be human. "Yes, they can finally rest in peace in the Fade. Perhaps I can look at their stars without pain after I am finished." The tone changed then, from conversational to musing. "I do sometimes pity these demons of pride. So very weak if one knows their true nature. Much like Uldred."

Zevran shuddered and fiercely focused his attention outside the hut again. The _last_ thing he needed was a reminder of Jorath's confrontation with Uldred.

_A human needs skin..._

He was shocked from his scrutiny when a hand laid gently on his shoulder. He turned to find that knowing grin on Jorath's face, the expression accenting the deep scores of the furrowed scar underneath the burn scars. "Paying a little too much attention to the street, hmm?"

"This _is_ Denerim, my friend. You never know what will come out." Putting his own hand on the taller man's shoulder, he took his time examining his face, something that Jorath disallowed anyone else from doing. "You're tired," he said softly. "Did that wear you out?" _What did you do?_

Jorath waved the question away. "Nothing a hunt won't fix, really. But Gaxkang... Ah, yes, Gaxkang had to be dealt with. Such insults to family honor should not be allowed to stand, even if the answer is Ages in the making." Taking Zevran's hand, he brought it to his lips and began biting it, in that serious, loin-hardening fashion that meant he was going to take Zevran soon. As the assassin's mouth went dry, the mage's compelling red eyes stayed locked with his, and before he knew it, their lips were locked and clothing was being ripped.

It wasn't until much later that Zevran realized that the soft, weak sound of someone in the back of the hut struggling to breathe ceased halfway through their passion.


	3. Home, Sweet Home - Chapter 1

_**A/N: **This is the first part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"_

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Chapter 1 of **Home, Sweet Home**

_Assessing the Situation_

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He stood at the top of the hill overlooking Lake Calenhad, face lost in thought. His staff was in hand, the end glimmering as he slowly sampled the residue of spells lingering in vicinity of the Tower. Carefully he pulled in the magic, tucking it away within, or in one of the many small artifacts he used to store magic not yet too dissipated to be useless. Of course, he'd collected the magic in the area fairly thoroughly last time he'd wandered through - trailing Duncan like the obedient little mage he'd been pretending to be - so the spells he felt must have been enacted since his rather precipitous departure. The tang in the air emanating from Kinloch Hold was _tantalizing,_ and it took him a moment to collect himself to fully analyze and sort through what he found.

_Anger..._ A great deal of magic had been expended with the edge of fury in the past few days, perhaps longer, an impression which lingered past its initial recognition. _Fear_ and - he sniffed cautiously - yes, _blood_ also lingered, and he grimaced. Blood was, of course, extremely useful, but the flagrant waste and overlay of demons he smelled on this usage...

"Foolish, yes," he murmured to his sister, smiling as she giggled. "But then, if the main source of the conflict is who I think it is... foolishness is to be expected."

"What?"

Jorath turned to the man next to him, his earnest face drawn into a puzzled frown. "Nothing, Alistair. Just musing." He paused as he listened to his sister's suggestion, nodding unconsciously. "If there's trouble such as we heard rumor of in Lothering, I would imagine they're being particular about travel to and from the tower. Best let me take care of it, since I'm from there, hmm?"

The ex-Templar shifted uneasily. Jorath's known place of origin being only one of several points rendering him uncomfortable around Jorath. _Ah, Alistair, and just how uncomfortable would you feel if you could _remember_ everything we've done together._ His gaze flitted over the man's body, picturing it without the bothersome armor and clothing, and smirked as he turned his eyes back to the Tower. _Yes, sister, it _is_ a pity he's not inclined without a bit of... suggestion._

"If you think it best," the man said dubiously.

"Oh, I do." He turned and look at the rest of the gaggle behind him, lips pursed. "I sense no Darkspawn in the Tower, so I think it best to leave you here and protect the ones who remain behind." He laughed lightly, seeing Alistair relax minutely at the almost normal sound. "I can't very well take Morrigan into a place full of Templars and Circle Mages, can I?"

"You want to leave me with-" Alistair grimaced. "I can't fault your logic, but are you _sure_ you don't need me at the Tower?"

"Now, now, she'll be docile. I had a talk with her." He glanced at her, knowing she was staring at him, and felt a little warm glow when she flinched and looked away. "Besides, I'm leaving Leliana with you as well." _Better if none who follow the Light come with me. I haven't claimed her fully yet, anyway. _"She can keep you company while Morrigan pouts."

"Compa- Oh, no, it's nothing like _that_!" Alistair flushed, indicating it had sometimes crossed his mind late at night, and the nights _had_ been cold of late.

_Hmm, what do you think, sister? Perhaps after the Tower, after... Perhaps I _will_ make a _suggestion_ for them... _"Did I imply anything beyond a friendly hand of cards?" Turning away from the warrior, he said, "Yes, you remain here with Morrigan and Leliana. I'll only need Zevran anyway." _Yes, sister, it is another test. Even an assassin must have limits._

"Only Zevran, though?" Alistair sounded concerned, and Jorath smiled tightly. "I... don't think I entirely trust him, honestly. I mean, he's only been with us a few weeks. I'm still not convinced he's somehow not biding his time."

"Don't want to be the only Warden left in Ferelden?" he asked quietly, watching the man's face twist into embarrassment as his query hit the mark. "Don't worry. I have ascertained Zevran's true allegiance, dear Alistair," the flinch at _those_ words also warmed him, "and I am confident I can handle him come what may. As for the Tower, well," his gaze settled on the Tower in the middle of the Lake, "I practically grew up here." _Calm yourself, sister. I still remember the years before I entered the Tower. _"I think it would be easier for me to investigate without worrying about my companions." He turned his red eyes to regard Alistair. "After all, we don't want a repeat of what happened to Sten."

Alistair literally took a step back, away from the words and the eyes, as the horror of the memory of Sten's dried, desiccated body collapsing to the ground of the ruins in the Dalish forest clearly ran across his face. "Ah, right, no, we wouldn't want that, would we? I'll just go... talk with Morrigan and Leliana, then, shall I?"

Jorath watched him go, the little tickle in his ear also alerting him to Zevran's approach. Dismissing his reluctant fellow Warden from his thoughts, he turned to regard the approach of the lithe assassin who was, hopefully, more compatible with his desires and hopes than the ex-Templar was. _At least he understands the proper use of his manhood, sister, as I'm sure you have noticed._ "Zev," he said cheerfully. "Ready to head out?"

Zevran frowned slightly. "Are you sure you wish it to be just we two? I am not completely familiar with the inner workings of Circles and Templars, but if the situation is dire enough to have called for a Right of Annulment, then perhaps a bit more firepower would be wise."

A bit surprised at the question, Jorath raised an eyebrow, deliberately choosing the one which emphasized the radiating scar on his face. He understood the movement of magic within the tower, felt the heat of blood magic coming most tellingly from the top chamber, and knew there was nothing there outside his ability to handle, given his unique training. "We'll be fine, Zev. Besides, I'd like to take you to some of my old haunts _alone._" Their newfound physical relationship was freshly minted, but given his nature, explored at every given opportunity. _Yes, sister, it _is_ a good thing I prefer pain at this rate._

The assassin sighed, then shrugged. "Ah, very well. Let us proceed, then, yes? I am most curious to discover what lies within these halls."

"Normally, a form of slavery which everyone seems to accept," he commented without a trace of bitterness in his tone, though his sister began to rant within, and headed towards the ferry. "Now? We shall see." He _suspected_, based on the threads of magic moving through the Tower, what was occurring, but he wanted to know more about what was going on before making any further declarations.

As he reached the end of the dock, he smiled when he saw the nervous youth in Templar armor standing at its end. As his face became visible to the man, he enjoyed even more the gasp of shock and abrupt retreat. _Apparently they remember me, hmm?_ he commented as Narinia giggled. He stretched a smile across his face as he came to a halt and tilted his head slightly. "There isn't going to be any unpleasantness about crossing to the Tower, is there?"

A few minutes later, as they sat in the boat in its short journey across Lake Calenhad, he slid his hand between Zevran's legs and began tormenting his lover with clever fingers and the strategic use of the dulled crackle of electricity. His sister giggled, guiding his hand as Zevran gladly let his head fall back and groaned with pleasure. Jorath glanced at the suddenly stiff shoulders and red ears of their ferryman, smiled, and then loosed Zevran from the prison of the rather tight leather pants Jorath had found for him, ignoring his sister's own moan at the feel of his lover's warm yet rigid length. When the boat reached its destination, the erstwhile ferryman, Templar armor almost blindingly shiny in its newness, waited until the dock rang with Zevran's cry of release, hunching over slightly as his armor became almost painfully tight.

Casually depositing the handkerchief he used to clean Zevran into the Lake, he stood as Zevran adjusted himself to be more presentable and stepped from the boat onto the shore. His lover joined him, sliding a hand down his side until it rested on his ass, squeezing and manipulating, and Jorath again looked at Carroll, noticing the jerk as the man hurriedly looked away. "We won't return for quite a while, friend. I'd suggest doing something about that unfortunate posture of yours in the meantime." He shook his head to rub his neck against the collar of his robe, the blade in it loosing just a bit of blood, and he funneled the tiny edge of power into a _suggestion_ for the Templar. "It would be a pity to waste such a fine display, would it not?"

The sound of armor being unbuckled echoed behind them as they sauntered up the path to the Hold. _No one would be coming to the Tower for a while, with the ferryman occupied._ Which _also_ worked into his plans.

Within the Hold was chaos, at least, chaos compared to what Jorath was accustomed. It was actually a bit less chaotic than he had anticipated, and as he strode to the tall man with greying hair and Templar armor standing in the middle of the hall, he noted the closed door with Templars standing guard in the back of the welcome hall. _Ah, Greagoir - always one to cut your losses before it costs too much. _"Knight-Commander," he said politely. _This one is very sensitive to magic, _he reminded his sister as she kept insisting Jorath should make a _suggestion_. _Best not to invite his scrutiny until we have done him a favor. After all, I'm sure he hasn't forgotten Jowan._

The man nodded curtly, but Jorath registered the tightening of his lips and narrowing of his eyes, Greagoir's subtle signs indicating the mage's presence was _not_ welcome. Oddly enough, the Knight-Commander actually made the sentiment known rather than hiding it as he did before. "I see the stormcrow has arrived. As if matters in the Tower were not already desperate enough."

"I see my reputation precedes me," Zevran said smugly. "Ah, how nice to be so _very_ famous. Or is it infamous?"

Jorath enjoyed Greagoir's irritation as he looked scathingly at Zevran. "I was _referring_ to the mage." His hostile eyes returned to Jorath. "I suppose you're a Grey Warden now? Figures not even the Blight could kill you."

"That I am," Jorath replied, deliberately using the higher pitched voice he'd always affected in the tower, ignoring Zevran's startled glance as his lover's voice went from deep to almost female in tone. "But rumors of the Tower's troubles came to my ears, and I thought I would come and offer assistance."

Greagoir sighed heavily. "As I said, the Tower is desperate enough. We do not need the help of-" He stopped abruptly, shifting uneasily on his feet.

_Oh, this is just delicious, Narinia. He still can't speak of it._ "Of one of the finest students ever to grace the halls of this Tower?" he asked smoothly. "I know my face still frightens many, but you yourself investigated his death, Knight-Commander, before ever you bore the title. Even you declared me innocent of murder."

Greagoir looked away, shifting on his feet. "Of _murder_, yes."

_I see you still remember the 'demonstration', Greagoir. _"Then why the hesitation in accepting my help?" he asked in an incredulous tone, knowing full well what memory moved behind the man's eyes. "Tell me what has happened, and you know I will do all in my power to purge the Tower of evil. I have done so before, and I will do so again." He took a step forward, as if impatient, but truly it was to get that wide-eyed reaction of fear kindled in Greagoir, and Narinia laughed as Greagoir responded oh-so-predictably to his motion, going so far as to take a half-step back. "Or have you suddenly become a changed man and stopped caring whatsoever for those under your care? What happened to your self-purported 'better than the Orlesian Templars' title of which you were once so proud, mmm?"

"I-" The Knight-Commander stopped and took a deep breath, then shook his head and firmed under Jorath's pressure, as he had hoped. Uncertainty vanished as his pride was called into play, and he met Jorath's eyes and nodded. "Very well. The Tower has been overrun by abominations, an unprecedented number of them. We tried to fight them, but their number..." The frustration in his tone was evident, and his sister made an internal cooing sound of sympathy. "We fought as long as we could, but I refuse to waste the lives of all my Templars and still have the abominations overrun us and escape into Ferelden. We withdrew to the entrance hall and sealed the door to prevent any escape."

"Are there any mages still alive?" Jorath asked intently. He may have had few friends, but he still would never wish death upon the entire populace of the Tower. Certain individuals, certainly, but he knew he needed _some_ to survive, to aid him against the Blight if nothing else. Had he his way, he would be able to act on the inclination to indulge in some _specific_ mayhem before this was all through.

"If there are, we did not see them or could not save them." Greagoir's face grew tired as he ran his gauntleted hand over it, and Jorath knew he spoke simple truth. Greagoir was not a simple man, by any means, but he lacked the subtlety or inclination to lie about anything to Jorath's face. "I know I'll not be the only Templar haunted by the still bodies of children and youth in the years to come."

Again, Narinia murmured in sympathy, and this time Jorath agreed. Few could take pleasure in the death or pain of a child, and Greagoir was certainly not among them. "Let me help," he said softly. "If you've called for the Right, but there are still innocent mages inside, they will die. Do you wish _all _of their faces to haunt you? Besides, the Wardens need allies, not corpses."

Greagoir flinched, knowing Jorath spoke the truth. "I won't endanger my men, or Ferelden. The Blight already threatens to ravage it; I won't unleash a plague of abominations as well." He sighed. "Still, there is truth to what you say. Very well. Find Irving. I may not fully trust you in certain matters, but I trust him implicitly despite our differences. If he stands in front of me, clear of mind, and tells me to abate the Right of Annulment, then I will do so and promise the aid of the Templars to you for the Blight."

Jorath nodded. "That is acceptable." With a quick glance and gesture, he and Zevran moved to the door, which the Templars opened before him.

"When the door closes behind you, it will remain closed to all but Irving," Greagoir called to him. "I cannot risk an escape."

Jorath pressed forward without a word. He'd gotten what he wanted, and now wished only to fulfill the promise he'd made to his father. He'd save the Tower along the way, of course, and get rid of the troublesome Uldred, but he would never have bothered returning to the Tower save for that burning need.

When the door banged shut behind them, Zevran jumped slightly. "It truly does sound like prison doors. This is where you were reared?" He grunted. "Spacious compared to the quarters given to Crow recruits."

Interest piqued, he replied, "A prison is a prison, but I will admit at least there were always places to which one could retreat if some time alone were necessary."

"Ah, I would have adored such a luxury." The elf's expression was remote. "No, every one of our moments was scrutinized and examined: for weakness, for strength, for a hint of anything which could jeopardize our eventual promotion to full Crow status. Everything weighed and measured, and never a moment's surcease." He shrugged. "It is how I knew you watched me, you see: I am used to being watched, and have long since learned to determine from what source." He glanced around the dark halls, ignoring the corpses and blood littering the ground around them, emulating Jorath in that regard. "And now I am beginning to understand why you knew I was watching you."

Following an impulse borne of Narinia, Jorath suddenly turned and grabbed Zevran by the collar, turning him around and pushing him, face first, into the wall, lifting him so the elf's head was almost level with his own. He felt the elf's pulse increase under his hands as he pressed in against him. The light of the Tower was nothing like he remembered: dim and flickering instead of bright and steady, but the stones... the stones had not changed. This spot, in particular, gripped him as he squeezed against Zevran, leaning into the elf until he could run his stubbled cheek against the assassin's hairless one, blocking out the sensation of tears which had last fallen down it _here._ "And what if I told you it was here, in this exact spot, where I learned the true meaning of power?" he said softly. He ground his hips into Zevran, enjoying not so much the pleasure of the pressure between leather, wool, and flesh so much as he reveled in being in command. Judging from Zevran's shudder, he was not the only one. "It was here I learned how easily the powerful prey upon those they perceive are weak."

His hand reached up and caressed Zevran's exposed neck, pondering pain and the lock of dark elven hair he'd found in Zevran's pack, the lock the elf still refused to discuss, despite Jorath's... persuasion. "It was here I learned I could no longer afford to be a child." His hand reached past Zevran and caressed the stone almost lovingly, remembering the terror as he'd been taken, the long and lonely night which followed, and the dream during it which had changed everything forever. He sent a caressing thought to Narinia, then focused on Zevran, pressing his hips forward again and pressing his torso tight against Zevran's back. The elf shivered slightly, and Jorath grinned as he began to bite exposed flesh.

"You- you do realize we are surrounded by corpses?" Zevran gasped, though it couldn't be denied Jorath's... _odd_ approach to sex and arousal meshed quite nicely with the elf's proclivities.

"_Very,"_ he whispered into the assassin's ear, then grazed his teeth along the pointed length, the motion causing his own to leap to further attention below his robe, particularly when Zevran emitted a guttural groan. Pulling back enough to let Zevran fall to his feet, he turned the elf so they faced each other, and pulled him close again into a kiss more devouring than caring, his need to possess the elf _now_ and overwrite the event of his childhood in this hall driving him beyond even his own rather relaxed standards regarding sex.

Thus he was disappointed when he heard a startled gasp and footsteps running away down the hall. _Even when the Hall is in disarray, I have to be careful or be caught. Disappointing._

Zevran, given his training, heard the sound as well and chuckled as Jorath swore a muttered oath and let the elf fall from his grasp fully. "Pity." He glanced to the side, and, when he saw no more immediate activity, reached out and tightly gripped what had been digging into him only a moment before, pulling Jorath towards him. Once they were almost touching, he looked up at Jorath and smiled. "Later, my divine sex god. I am a patient elf. I can wait."

"I would have preferred not to," Jorath muttered, closing his eyes and licking his lips as Zevran squeezed him one final time before letting go. "Still, I suppose a fillip of irritation will only aid me in dealing with the abominations." He quickly ran through the exercises he'd developed over the years to reclaim his calm, and felt his body temperature lower as he lost the urgency to erase that _particular_ memory. _Later, perhaps._ "I suppose we should go see who survives. These are the apprentice quarters - for all we know, we've permanently scarred an impressionable young maiden with our antics." Narinia giggled, the prospect not upsetting her in the least.

"Somehow, I think she will survive, this unnamed young maiden." Zevran pushed away from the wall and began to walk down the corridor. "Mages from here do seem to be a hardy lot - at least, from what I have experienced thus far."

Jorath followed after him silently, instinct and habit making him pull his staff from its normal resting place and using it almost as a walking stick. The sound each time the staff clicked down on the ground echoed down the hall, and a small smile lit on Jorath's face as memories came back to him, especially of poor Jowan, always wondering why he carried his staff in such a manner, and so confused by his friend's answer: _I believe in fair warning._

And he did. Once he had begun the habit, he'd rarely encountered Templars again, save those who refused to be intimidated. _Greagoir, of course. Bran and Lufke. _The ones who could look at his face and not flinch, mainly. It had also kept some of his fellow mages away, particularly those who had been acquaintances of his mentor Kaavith before his death. His hand reached up to the scar on his face, angry red and in the form of a starburst. _Kaavith's last act against me, the last and most obvious of the damage done to me. Still, if even Greagoir could not prove his murder, then Irving could do no more than watch. _His smile grew as he began to hum quietly. _Ah, you old fool, did you think I would let you interfere with my family's destiny?_

His musings - both of his past and of Zevran's taut backside - slid away as they emerged into the room which led to the library and the underground. It wasn't the small clusters of children cowering protectively behind the scattered adults in the room holding his attention, of course: he'd had no use for children when he'd been a child, and saw no reason to change that opinion now. No, what caught his attention was the white-haired old mage with her staff held before her, facing down the rage demon rushing towards her.

Calmly, he leaned his staff back on his shoulder and watched with a certain professional interest, trying to recall the woman's name as she easily dispatched it. _Wynne, that's it._ He'd never studied with her personally - Irving had deemed it a 'poor personality match' - but he knew her nonetheless, the notes on her tucked away into his journal along with the notes on all the other Senior Enchanters. His eyes narrowed speculatively as she turned to face them, hand tightening around his staff as he noticed something... _different _about her since he'd seen her at Ostagar. His sister whispered into his inner ear, telling him of the nature of the threads connecting her to the Fade. _Not a demon, _she murmured, giving Jorath pause. Demons were simple to deal with, but spirits... were not so easily bidden, once they decided to interfere. As he well knew.

Before Wynne could do more notice his presence, a young voice (a boy, not a maiden, as he and Zevran had speculated) cried out, "It's them! The men I saw kissing in the hall!"

This set a flurry of whispers loose among the children, and he saw Wynne lower her head to hide a small grin. He emulated her, knowing his appearance usually worked against him when it came to putting others at ease, and casually laid an arm around Zevran's waist and pulled him close, to the awe and giggles of the children. He glanced at the source of the outcry, a blushing boy no more than ten years old, and asked, "And what is wrong with something as simple as a kiss?"

As if the assassin read his mind, their lips met halfway, and he felt Zev's chuckle as they exchanged an incredibly chaste kiss for their young audience. A chorus of _ooh_s and _aah_s echoed in the enclosed stone space, and a whispered, "They're _kissing!"_ mixed with an equally soft "Is that _allowed?"_ Unsurprisingly, there were some additional giggles, but then the inevitable observation was spoken as they broke their kiss.

"What happened to his face?"

One of the adults tried to hurriedly shush the young boy who'd dared voice the question, but Jorath was already walking towards him, staff clicking on the ground before he knelt in front of them. "You, boy. Do you wish to see it closer?"

A horrified silence fell over them as all eyes turned to the boy who had dared voice the question as he shuffled his feet and looked down. "N-no, ser."

"I do!"

Surprised, Jorath watched as a young girl pushed her way out of the group and strode to stand in front of Jorath, peering at him intently. Her hand started to come up, then quickly dropped, but he said softly, "Go on."

The girl hesitated, then slowly reached up and touched the scar, to a chorus of horrified gasps behind her, not all of them from children. He kept his eyes locked on her, fascinated, as she explored the long, radiating furrows around his left eye, inscribed by Kaavith's counterspell, and even found the long scar, subtle but still present under the burn, which ran from his forehead to his chin, placed there long before his time in the Tower. She even gently touched the tattoo of the spider and its red hourglass, almost completely obscured by the burn mark, on the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "Your eyes are like fire," she half-whispered, tone both afraid and wondering all at once, as she snatched her hand back. "Does it burn?"

He cocked his head as he listened to his sister's comments, and smiled slightly, calling up the small glamour to make it seem as if his eyes literally held fire within. "Always," he replied.

He was admittedly impressed when she only blinked as he let the illusion fall, his bright red eyes - a marker of his mother's family - stilling once more. "How-?" She didn't have to finish the question - he could tell what she wanted to ask by the dart of her bright grey gaze to the scar she had touched.

"Never underestimate evil, my brave young lady. Remember this," he pointed at the scar, "whenever someone asks you to trust them without reason."

She nodded, eyes wide, then looked behind him for a moment. She leaned closer and asked, "Do you love him?"

That question _did_ catch him by surprise, but he was saved from answering when Wynne reached the young girl and gently guided her back to the group of children, who immediately clustered around her and began asking her questions, taking the hand touching Jorath's face and looking at it with a mixture of disgust and awe. As the woman turned to face him, he got to his feet and smiled at her charmingly. "Shall we talk, Senior Enchanter?"

She nodded. "I think that would be wise. I would very much like to know why they let you through when they won't let any of us out. Not even the children." She raised an eyebrow as he presented his elbow to her, but laid a light hand on it as they moved away from the children, his steps subtly guiding them to the small staircase leading downwards, which he pretended to ignore.

_His true goal..._

Still, it could wait until he had dealt with all the idiots and fools. "Greagoir's called for the Right of Annulment," he said softly.

"And you're helping him?" The tone was sharp, but not disbelieving.

_Not in the way you think. So kind of you to judge me so harshly._ "I would prefer if the Tower is not rendered lifeless in a single stroke, so no. However, he has agreed to call off the Right if I can find and bring Irving before him." He issued a little shrug as he brought her to a halt at the top of the stairs, his staff clicking softly on the carpet leading down the short flight. "Have you seen him?"

She shook her head, worry entering her face as he neatly distracted her from the movement of the hand closest to the one resting on his arm. "I haven't seen him since this all started."

"Uldred, I take it?" Suppressing a chuckle as she looked at him in surprise, he said, "And here I thought it was common knowledge all who study demons must inevitably succumb to them." The tone was slightly mocking, and his eyes were unforgiving as they met hers as he quoted her own words back to her.

She flushed, and looked almost... guilty? _Yes, she is feeling guilty. How novel, sister. So she's aware of her little occupant, hmm? Let me know what you find, Narinia, my dearest._

Abruptly he dragged the small shard of glass across Wynne's hand, moving a finger over the cut to capture the blood as it welled out to smear on the rune embroidered into his sleeve with lyrium-saturated thread, even while invoking a _suggestion _to relax her defenses. Already weary in body and soul, as he'd deduced, she faltered in her next step, blinking in confusion. His hands smoothly caught her before she fell, their gazes locking as he slipped past her magical defenses and allowed Narinia to flow into the old mage's body while at the same time shaping her awareness so she would only remember a weary stumble, and nothing more. Once he was sure the transferral was secure and her memory as it should be, he ran his finger over the cut, healing it as if it had never occurred.

"Are you all right, Senior Enchanter? You staggered slightly." He put a concerned look on his face and patted her arm, drawing in the little excess magic which hovered around her and storing it away in his staff. "The demon you dealt with - he was but one of several, I take it, over the last few days?"

Face a bit dazed, she nodded. "That or abominations." Taking a deep breath, she took her arm off of his. "And my health is hardly important now. Do you intend to find Irving as Greagoir has requested?"

"It appears as if it is the only way I will be able to guarantee the Tower's aid during the Blight," he said, letting her retreat. The emptiness in his mind which his sister usually occupied was... odd, but necessary, in this case. Since it had taken him years to learn how to detect his sister's subtle presence, he wasn't overly worried about an accidental discovery on the part of Wynne. "As such-"

"_You_ are a Grey Warden?" she asked in surprise.

He feigned surprise. "I _was_ at Ostagar. I even saw you there, standing under the great tree next to the encampment. I heard Uldred's little speech to the King, and watched him get slapped down firmly by the Revered Mother." Of course, he'd made sure none of the Circle Tower mages had seen him at Ostagar, save for Uldred - the man's flinch at seeing him as a Grey Warden had made the pain of the Joining and the theft of Daveth's life force worth all the effort he'd put into it. "That's why I assumed all this trouble could be laid at Uldred's doorstep. You do know he tried to get me to join his little band of mages, do you not?"

"I tend not to pay close attention to the politics of the Tower," she admitted. "Perhaps to my detriment in this case. But then I never thought Uldred would- But that's not important now." Making a curt gesture with her hand, she turned and began walking to the blue shimmering energy field separating them from hallway to the library. Jorath followed her at a more leisurely pace, his staff again clicking on the sound with his footsteps. "At any rate, young man, if you are going in there, I will be accompanying you."

He ignored her, moving to the barrier and studying it for a moment. Curiously he tapped his staff against it, nodding when the room behind him rang like a bell. He siphoned off just enough of the magic so it wouldn't collapse, and turned to Wynne. "Yes, you will."

"She will?" He turned to look at Zevran. "I... I admit I am a bit surprised. I would have thought-" He trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. Jorath realized he had once again done as Zevran did not expect, and the assassin did not appreciate being wrong. "Well, I suppose you know best when it comes to the Tower." The glance he sent to Jorath, however, informed him of his polite demand for a conversation at a later time.

Wynne, meanwhile, considered him with narrowed eyes. His interference with her spell could not have been a pleasant sensation for her, yet he had given her exactly what she wanted. In addition, she must have been acutely aware of the way the children were watching them. No matter how unorthodox his methods, they had worked to cement, if not the children's affection, then at least their fascination, and he knew she would need to appear at least cordial to him while still around them.

He had trapped her, and she knew it, and she couldn't do anything about it... for now.

"Then let's get going," she snapped.

He watched with hidden amusement as she dismissed the barrier, then quickly moved in front of her as they moved into the library proper. "Allow me," he murmured, still in the effeminate voice of his Tower persona. "After all, you are the better healer, are you not? Best let the battle mage draw the attention first."

She gave way with poor grace as Zevran drew his blades and gave them a cursory examination. Jorath stepped forward, feeling the wavers in the magic ahead which indicated demons and abominations and other such riffraff. With a smile, he brought his staff down to crack sharply on the floor, pulling the magic stored in it to form the various barriers of protection around him.

After all, there were plenty of demons and abominations ahead of him with which to fill it again.


	4. Home, Sweet Home - Chapter 2

_**A/N: **This is the second part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"_

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Chapter 2 of **Home, Sweet Home**

_Judge and Executioner_

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Predictably, as soon as they were beyond the view and sound of the children, Wynne demanded answers. Her first barrage was interrupted by the appearance of rage demons only a few steps into the library, and once they were dead, she remained silent, watching with wide eyes as Jorath put the end of his staff on the still twitching body of a rage demon and literally sucked the last remnants of the Fade from its body, watching with a tight grin as it disintegrated into dust on the floor.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

"Demons are made of the stuff of the Fade," he said clinically as he moved to the next fallen foe. "Create the proper holding vessel, and you can take it for your own use, as magic, just like lyrium. Surely this has occurred to you before?" He looked at her slightly agape mouth. "Perhaps not. Don't you ever regret the Chantry suppresses both the thoughts _and_ freedom of mages in its zealotry?" Not expecting an answer, he finished the last of the demons and moved to the statue at one end of the library. The identity of the subject was unimportant - it was far more important to retrieve the bauble he'd left there the day before his Harrowing. His fingers moved over the smooth surface and found the trigger placed there Ages ago, by one of his mother's ancestors. Activating it, he reached inside for the piece of paper and jewel he'd put there, then turned and headed deeper into the library, ignoring Wynne's upraised hand. "There will be time for questions later. Come, let us find Uldred before the Right is invoked."

He knew Zevran had many questions, though it was likely the press of the demons and bereskarn and abominations prevented him from approaching him more than the fear of the imminent arrival of any response from the Chantry. He would explain it to Zevran - and, to a lesser extent, to Wynne - when they were higher up in the tower, but first he had to gather all the little pieces he had been putting into place, once again cursing the fate which drove him away from the Tower before he had been allowed to finish his purpose. _I needed to be recognized as a mage first, or the Tower would not respond. Shaman Morcant wove his spells far too cleverly for that._ The final piece, of course, could not be acquired until they reached Irving's quarters, but at least he could gather the other remnants first.

The taste of bitter frustration welled up in his mouth again. _So close, yet so far! I saw it in Irving's quarters. Dammit, Jowan, could not your idiocy with Lilly have occurred when I predicted rather than on your own hormonal schedule? Odd how I misread the nature of your sexuality so thoroughly..._

Still, it was in the past. He yet had a chance to free his family from the curse laid upon them, if he could but stay focused a bit longer before being pulled back to the bother of dealing with the Blight. _If only the flaming Archdemon hadn't risen in Ferelden..._ Pushing the minor regret aside once more, he stuck his staff into the abomination lying at his feet and took its Fadestuff before looking at Wynne. "All right, that's the last of the enemies in the library. Any questions?"

He saw her eyes flicker down to look at the small piles of... not quite ash, but the word served well to describe the flaky residue left behind every time he laid staff to demon. "You never needed our training," she whispered.

"That is not a question," he pointed out, then turned and strode up the stairs, leaving it up to her to decide whether to follow or not. "And those children are still waiting."

Zevran chuckled as he easily caught up with him, the robes proving as much a hindrance to motion as they were a bonus to his magic. "A masterful spur."

"She can dither if she wishes, but there is a man atop the Tower who holds power of which he is not worthy." _It should be mine._ "I only point out the truth."

The elf shrugged. "I didn't say I disa-" He stiffened, daggers appearing in his hands like magic. "There's someone there."

Jorath immediately brought his staff into a more attack-ready posture, then saw the man Zev had noticed. "Ah. No need to worry about battle with this one." Calmly he strode to the man with the star on his forehead, his staff clicking at regular intervals on the stone floor. "Owain. I see you somehow survived the slaughter."

Owain nodded, as calm as Jorath appeared to be. "It has not been the easiest of times of late, young Master Jorath."

"Master Jorath?" Wynne demanded incredulously.

The Tranquil turned to look at Wynne. "I'm sorry, Jorath, I did not see the presence of another mage. I will..." He paled ever so slightly. "I will pay more attention next time."

"You do that," Jorath responded in his high voice. Tranquils may not respond to emotion, but they did still respond to physical pain, if it were applied in enough quantities - as he had discovered to his satisfaction. Most of the Tranquil in the Tower danced to his tune as he wished, not from fear, but from the conclusion that _no pain_ was preferable to _pain._ "In the meantime, you would be better served going back into the storage room and hiding. Wouldn't want to be hurt, now, would we?"

"No, Jorath." Owain moved back, keeping his eyes on the tall human as he moved to rearrange some remnants of furniture and stores to hide behind.

_Excellent. I'll need you later._ He glanced around, but saw only charred or bloodied corpses of humans and elves, some with the stamp of Tranquility, and others without. _Useless. Not even any magic left to take._

As he turned to head to the library, Wynne interjected, "How can you just... look at them as if... as if they are not important?"

"Are they important?" he asked. He pointed at Owain. "He's just another body doing a job. If he dies, ten more will rise to take his place. In all my years here in the Tower I can count those who have been truly useful to me on one hand." He let his staff fall to the ground with a crack, pleased when Wynne flinched. "Importance is relative, not absolute, my dear Wynne. Whether or not you claim to agree with the sentiment or not, in the end, everyone lives by that philosophy. The children are important to you, perhaps, and I find amusement in them, but they are not important to, say, Uldred, are they?"

"It is something they teach you in the Crows: make yourself important to as many as possible, and your life has value. Otherwise..." Zevran shrugged and moved past Wynne to stand by Jorath. "Life among the Crows is worthless, but death? Ah, death is very valuable, indeed. Several large rooms of gold valuable. I suppose civilized company would deem my viewpoint... skewed."

Jorath raised a finger to trail along Zevran's cheek, once again appreciating the chord of understanding between them. "Civilization is only barbarity with a pretty veneer." Leaning down, he touched his lips to Zevran's, pulling the elf's upper lip in between his teeth and biting hard enough to bring blood to the surface. "And it is still only three meals away from catastrophe."

Wynne made a vague noise of disapproval. "We don't have time for your... your grandstanding, young man. As you said, those children are important - though I do think it absolute, and not... variable."

He glanced at her. "I would expect no differently from you." _Though you didn't raise even a finger when Jowan and I kept showing up with excessive burn marks after 'training sessions' with Kaavith._ Still, that was long in the past, though it explained his and Jowan's extreme opposite reactions regarding the control of flames in magic.

_Speaking of flames..._ He stepped forward a couple of feet, pulled heat from the air fast enough to cause a frost on the ground around him, and ignited it with magic, shoving the huge ball of flame into the next room, engulfing the pillar and the man behind it in a vast sheet of heat and pain.

The shiver as the man screamed hoarsely ran down the length of his spine, and he knew he would need some time with Zevran, alone. And soon. But the other figures in the next room had to be dealt with first, a pathetic distraction from his quest.

Still, once the dust had settled and the maleficarum lay in burned, semiconscious heaps on the ground, he regarded their groaning figures dispassionately before locking his eyes on the one opponent who had not attacked them, merely healed her fellow blood mages and cast defensive spells. She'd earned his attention, at the very least... after he'd taken what he needed from the others.

As he placed the end of his staff on the body of the one who had been hiding behind the pillar, alive through sheer force of will despite his nearly black flesh, Wynne gasped. "What are you-"

Ignoring her, he reached into the body and removed the Fadestuff, receiving the added bonus of a mage's inherent stores of magic. Blood magic, despite its name, didn't require blood, but that which lay _within_ the blood, the tiny motes of magic that allowed all sentient beings to pull themselves from the Fade each morning and re-enter their bodies. The man screamed and spasmed, then dissolved into a pile of wet dust. Vaguely he was aware of the woman maleficar sobbing and struggling against the spell he'd placed around her, and when he turned to move to the next one, he found Wynne standing beside him, staff raised.

He laughed. "Oh, come now, let us at least be honest, my dear Wynne. What is the fate of maleficarum, according to the Chantry and the Templars?"

"It is _not_ to be shucked like an ear of corn," she said, though her voice was far less steady than her staff, and her eyes were still a little wild. "At least they are killed with dignity."

He brought his staff around and knocked hers away, advancing on her until he'd pressed her against the pillar. Her protective magics sent a delicious thrill of agony through him, and when he met her eyes, he knew she would find an uncomfortable (for her) level of arousal in his gaze. "My brother was not given dignity," he said quietly. "They tortured him for three days, trying to call out the abomination they were so sure lay within. But he was like you, a healer before all else." _And he had a spirit, not a demon, within him, just like you. But you aren't quite willing to tell me so as of yet._ "I was two, and if Mother hadn't found us just as they were killing my brother, they likely would have killed me as well. As it was, they didn't survive my brother by long."

His hand reached up and he began to stroke the back of his fingers along her cheek. "Perhaps someday, if you start thinking and stop assuming, I will tell you what they did to my sister." He felt the distant giggle from within Wynne, and sighed, wishing he could take Narinia back right now, but it would require blood he was unwilling to spill at the moment. As it was, he leaned over and lightly laid his lips on the old mage's forehead. "Now, let me kill them as the Chantry dictates. You can judge me freely, but don't interfere. And don't make me hurt you."

Turning away, he spun his staff and stabbed it with unnecessary force into the second maleficar, twisting it slightly as he sucked all the magic from the quickly dying man. His time with Wynne had allowed the man to bleed quite a bit from the wounds Zevran had inflicted, so he didn't get quite as much as he had hoped, though still enough to fill his staff and the various gems in his robe with a surfeit of magic all the same. Better to be over-prepared than not ready, after all.

He glanced at the woman lying on the ground and wiping her mouth, the small puddle of vomit on the ground indicating her reaction to the deaths of her companions. He stalked to her, staff tapping on the ground, and just stood there for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge him. After a few gasping breaths, she finally looked up, and he smiled. "Alyssa," he greeted calmly.

"You bastard," she spat, venom in her voice. "You could have just killed them."

He shrugged, letting his staff fall back on his shoulder. "You could have chosen not to work with them. I told you why I would never support Uldred, and yet here you are."

"He offered freedom," she whispered. "He said we could do as we wished, without the Templars watching our every move, listening to our every word." Shivering, she ducked her head. "Among other things."

Jorath sighed and shook his head. "At least we are all wary of the Templars. Or have you already forgotten why Kaavith died?"

She looked up in surprise. "Your mentor? He died in a teaching accident, I thought..." Her eyes widened, moving to the burn scar on his face. "He was teaching fire to... I don't understand."

"Ah, yes, you weren't a target. You're female." He shrugged. "Still, let us say predators exist no matter what uniform they wear. It does no good to replace one system of known evils with an entire menagerie of _unknown_ ones. Particularly if it also means putting an incompetent in charge." Granted, his contempt of Uldred had, by necessity, never been generally aired until he had completed his Harrowing, but he'd been careful to avoid becoming one of his 'special' students even before Kaavith met his untimely end. Kaavith, for all his vile predilections, had at least been intelligent and inventive, even if he had outlived his usefulness. Uldred... "He's a dabbler, a poor scholar, and a less than satisfactory teacher. Were he not a mage, he would likely be a tinker somewhere, barely able to make ends meet. Why would you even think he had something beneficial to offer to mages? He is a prime candidate for being taken by a demon: a large ego coupled with a weak mind."

"No, tell her how you truly feel," Zevran said with a chuckle. Alyssa's eyes had widened as Jorath had continued through his speech. "I don't think you let her know the full depth of your disdain towards him."

"You know, if it were it anyone but Uldred, I would take you to task for such disrespect towards a Senior Enchanter." He looked to his side, mildly surprised to see Wynne's composure recovered sufficiently to join in. "But-"

"-it _is_ Uldred. Our reasons may not be the same, but I think we both agree his time has come."

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, indeed. Those abominations... Poor souls." She shuddered, then looked sternly down at Alyssa. "What shall we do with her?"

"Please, please don't kill me" the maleficar begged. "I didn't mean for this death and destruction! We were just trying to free ourselves. Uldred told us-"

The crack of Jorath's staff on the stone silenced her. "You are a mage. You have been through the Harrowing. Either stand up and defend your actions, or blame another and prove you have no right to your abilities. A mage cannot be weak - ever." He knelt before her mystical prison and reached through it, feeling the nature of the cage slice through his skin as he did so. By the time it reached the captive woman and cupped her chin, blood was welling from hundreds of tiny scratches. "So, what will it be, Alyssa? Are you strong? Or weak? Did you fight because you truly believed in Uldred and his cause? Or did you merely see an opportunity to do in numbers what you were too afraid to do alone?"

She looked at him, eyes poring over his face as the sound of liquid dripping onto the floor from his hand echoed in the cavernous library. "I-"

"The ends cannot justify the means, Alyssa," Wynne said softly, gesturing at the blood, the dead bodies, the broken shelves and scattered books. "Look what you and your companions have done to this place. You haven't proven to the world you deserve freedom - you've proven you cannot be trusted with it."

"We- we thought to be as Andraste, to fight against those who oppressed us, and change the world." Her eyes filled with tears. "We thought to free the slaves in the Tower as she freed others from the Imperium."

"And we all know how well _that_ turned out for her," Jorath observed. Granted, he knew more of the truth of Andraste's final days and the events afterwards than the Chantry could ever claim, but he need not burden this chit with it. "You pinned your hopes on the wrong Prophet, Alyssa. What makes you think you can escape the fate to which even Andraste succumbed?" His hand tightened around her chin, one of his fingers digging deeper and deeper into the soft flesh under her jawbone. Her hands scrabbled at the stone floor as the pain set in, eyes glistening with fear. He banished the magical barrier and leaned in, breathing the scent of fear deep as he whispered softly for her ears only, "Pity I don't have more time. I would love to bend your will to mine and hear you scream my name in need. As it is, I cannot leave weakness behind me."

From his fingers around her chin, ice shards sprang out, piercing her throat and penetrating her head through the bottom of her jaw. She was dead in an instant, sagging onto his arm limply as he reveled in the feel of her blood pouring over his hand and saturating his sleeve, quickly pulling all the magic from the flow of crimson. Banishing the ice spell, he pulled his hand back and let her fall to the ground, leaving her body untouched since he'd gathered what he needed from her. Wrapping his still glistening hand around his staff he turned and headed to the door leading to the next floor. "Come. We've wasted enough time here."

When he didn't hear footsteps immediately follow, he paused and looked back. Even Zevran looked a bit surprised at how he'd dispatched the woman, and he cursed internally as he realized he'd gone a bit too far even for the assassin. Wynne had knelt next to Alyssa, trying to straighten her limbs, and was frowning as she raised her head. "I thought her actions wrong, but... I was intending to hold her for the Templars."

"Who would kill her or send her to Aeonar faster than you can blink." He remembered his uncle's tales of Aeonar, and his face twisted. "I killed her cleanly and quickly. Perhaps I took advantage of her death, but her troubles are now over. And we must move on." Again he ached for some time with Zevran, but there was more to do before he could arrange for a proper time together.

Still, he didn't particularly enjoy seeing that look of hesitation on his lover's face.

_Damn it._ Pushing aside his driving need to get this _done_, he moved next to Zevran and slipped his clean hand around the elf's waist. "Does this have to do with the lock of black hair I found in your tent?" he asked quietly.

Zevran started, answering the question without words before he chuckled and waved the question away. "Of course not. The abruptness of your action caught me off my guard, is all. There is nothing to worry about."

"I know how skilled you are at wearing your face as a mask," Jorath murmured. He leaned down and gently laid his lips on Zevran's cheek, drawing them up and along the elf's sensitive ear, pleased when he shivered. "I noticed. I always notice."

Zevran pushed his head into his shoulder, and Jorath's grip tightened around him. "I know." A silent moment passed while Wynne watched them curiously, and then he dropped his hand away. "We must go."

Zevran nodded, hands reaching back for his daggers. "I am ready."

.~^~.

Jorath's staff flared with every step he took, saturated as it was with Fadestuff and magical energy by this point in their ascension up the Tower. The Desire Demons in particular were always a pleasure to dispatch, strong as they were, though he suspected they would not be the strongest demons they encountered before it was over. He was already speculating on the nature of the demon whispering in Uldred's ear, but he pushed the thought aside as they worked through wave after wave of rather pedestrian foes. Wynne was kept busy enough after he'd taken the time to show her some minor modifications to her offensive spells, though her attitude could best be described as grudging.

Still, he was feeling optimistic. He'd found several interesting items for later study in Irving's office - including a black grimoire radiating a _very_ familiar magic - and retrieved the item the man had taken from him years before. All in all, he was flush with magic and prepared for practically anything. The fact that Wynne had been forced to wait outside in the hall full of corpses while Zevran had attended to some of Jorath's stress in Irving's chambers also helped to lift his mood, the elf's clever tongue put to an entirely different use than teasing Wynne.

Still, he knew nothing was settled. And he had not accomplished his true purpose yet, though in truth it would have to wait until after Uldred's death. _Better to deal with the poison in the Circle before I lance the boil in the Tower itself._

His staff suddenly flared, and he glanced at it sharply. "There's a more powerful demon ahead," he warned his companions. "More powerful than the ones we've met thus far, at least."

As she had been since the beginning, Wynne was still fretting about something earlier. "There seemed to be... quite a few desire demons among the Templars," she said.

_Hmm, now _that _comment is unexpected._ Stopping in his tracks, he turned to look at her. "This surprises you? Most of the Templars here in the Tower are men. Men have needs and desires - this I can most definitely assure you. Did you somehow think they were above such carnal concerns?"

"I-" She heaved a sigh. "I am quite aware of the birds and the bees, young man-"

"You mean the spirits and the wisps?

Ignoring his interjection, she continued, "And I can most definitely assure you, having lived in the tower for well over twenty years and having seen my share of relationships both Greagoir and Irving would frown upon-"

"For the moment," Zevran piped in unexpectedly. When Wynne looked at him, cheeks puffed in indignation at the interruption, Zevran shrugged. "I am merely pointing out it is only when someone gets older that the fire of passion turns into the fire of outrage. Such a sad, sad state of affairs, it is true." He grinned at the older woman. "You have such a magical bosom, however, I would be most astonished and disappointed in the men of the Tower if you told me only your eyes and a mirror has seen it of late."

Jorath turned his face away to hide a grin, even as Wynne spluttered. "I assure you, I did _not_ mean- What do you mean, I have a magical- Hmph." She took a deep breath, then let it out. "Rest assured, if I were to let anyone close to my magical bosom, it would not be you."

"Pity. Oh, not that you won't let me near - I barely know you, after all, and the circumstances of our meeting have not been conducive to lust in the loins, so I can quite understand your reticence to pursue the matter further at the moment." Jorath had to put a hand over his mouth, though he could picture the unruly smirk on Zevran's face quite well. "It is a pity you say 'if' and confirm my deepest fears. Ah, to hide such magnificence away from everyone, keeping such a treasure to yourself... It is a true tragedy,no?"

Wynne stalked past Jorath, expression like a stormcloud, and Jorath allowed himself to chuckle even as he followed and reached for her elbow. "We're not alone," he cautioned. "I don't want you to die in a fit of pique." _You'd be rather useless to me then._ "Take a moment, and then we'll continue."

She sighed in exasperation. "Fine. Just- That tongue of his needs a leash."

"Ohh, this sounds _most_ intriguing," the elf said as he came up to stand near them. "Will it have spikes and a fur lining? Those are the best kind."

Now she looked a bit bewildered. "What are you talking about?" she snapped.

"Ah, you have not ventured there. Don't worry, my dear woman, I will most gladly teach you, if I am given the opportunity to lay my head on that magical bosom of yours."

"No, you may _not-"_

Jorath's staff cracked between them, sending a fireball into the room. The crowd of skeletons sneaking up on them were flung back in a wave of excess kinetic force, skulls and limbs flying even as the shrieks and demons poured through the door. "Later!" he griped.

Zevran and Wynne immediately got down to business. Wynne concentrated on the remaining standing undead, Zevran engaged the abominations - hulking, slow moving things as they were - and the shrieks, while Jorath concentrated on the demons. _Hmm, rage and hunger, hardly very powerful - another one lurks within the room proper, perhaps?_ As the last shriek collapsed and he sucked the final rage demon into dust, the mage tapped his staff gently onto the floor to settle the magic inside of it, quickly replenishing the stores of the jewels in his robe and under his skin. Glancing at Wynne and Zevran, who were acting like professionals once more, he nodded and headed towards the door.

As he crossed the threshold, he felt the wave of magic roll over him, urging disinterest, apathy, and, in general, a feeling of the lackadaisical, all of which set off alarms immediately in his head. His instincts started to counteract the effect, but then an idea came to him. Turning his head to Wynne, whose eyes were already a little dimmer, he quickly came to a decision. He forced himself to move forward, walking in a slow circle to face the demon directly... and faltered.

There, on the ground, in the robe of a mage... "Niall."

The figure hovering over the supine mage straightened. "Oh look, visitors. I'd entertain you, but... too much effort involved."

He stared at the abomination - as it clearly was - and then sent a pulse of energy towards it, receiving back just enough information to confirm his suspicions. "You again."

"Have we met? So difficult to remember all you busy, energetic little mortals." He sighed, and it was as if a wave of weariness ran through the room. "Unless you were that _tiresome _little mage conducting his pathetic little Harrowing."

"Was I tiresome? I am _so _sorry." _Why am I not surprised a sloth demon is a sore loser? _He placed his hand on his own cheek in mock shock. "And here I thought we could be best friends before I kill you."

"But why? Aren't you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am." It was all Jorath could do to not laugh in his face, but somehow he refrained himself. _Tire of violence? Sooner I would tire of sex, or magic._ The monster was not finished, however. "Wouldn't you like to just lay down and forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

He pretended to think about it, emulating the weariness he knew he was supposed to be feeling and to which Wynne and Zevran were obviously already beginning to succumb. He ducked his chin slightly, trying to get a better view of Niall, but his position was all wrong. One thing he was certain of, though: the mage's chest was barely moving. _Captured by sloth. You were a strong mage, and would never become an abomination... but you did so enjoy your dreams, Niall..._

He heard some muttering behind him, but the exact words were lost as his companions collapsed to the floor. "You intend to put me in the Fade?" he asked, deliberately slurring his words, pretending to indignation. "For how long?"

"Why do you fight?" the abomination said, voice soothing and deep and endless. Were he not who he was, Jorath knew, he would have dropped on the floor by now. His family, however, had a... _unique_ relationship with the Fade. "You deserve more. You deserve... a rest. The world will go on without you."

_Typical demon, speaking lies by telling the truth._ Still, he felt a familiar siren call from the Fade as Wynne's transition to the Fade achieved his first important goal: regaining the spark of his sister. In the Fade, in particular, he would need her.

Or she would need him. Sometimes, in the world of spirits and demons, the distinction blurred.

This time when the compulsion rose again, he allowed it to overwhelm him, though at least he used his staff to fall more gently to the floor. As he made the transition from Thedas to the Fade, an instantaneous traversing of the Veil, he felt his sister return to him, freed from Wynne and her assignment to study the older woman, and embrace him. He hugged her back, then allowed her to take him in, his ultimate protection against the vagaries of the Fade.


	5. Home, Sweet Home - Chapter 3

_**A/N: **This is the third part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"_

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Chapter 3 of **Home, Sweet Home**

_Remnants of the Past_

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Narinia looked about her, stretching her arms carelessly up into the grey sky and dancing in a little circle. She was _home_, or at least once more in the world masquerading as her home since her death. She issued an experimental little hop, debating whether or not she wanted to keep her current shape from the moment of her death, then shrugged and decided it was fine, for now. It was easier, anyway.

Skipping along the gray, constantly changing path, she wondered how Slothy would try to test her brother. Giggling at the thought, she took a moment to arrange her flame-red hair into a semi-functional side ponytail, then began skipping down the path again, stopping only to laugh and call out to a passing wisp, coaxing it to her to dance around her head like a tiny moon.

_Ah, brother, why don't you let me play more often, instead of nosing around in some old biddy's soul?_ She pouted, then shrugged and began moving forward again, this time with a bunny hop. _I mean, it _worked_, but a girl has to have fun _some_times._

Ahead, she saw ancient trees, a painting-perfect version of the forest where they'd been raised after their mother had fled with them following their father's rather unfortunate losing argument with a dragon. They'd managed to avoid the Dalish clans by migrating against their movements: moving, always moving, to the next cave, the next ruins, the next abandoned house. _Poor Mother. Always one step behind the Dalish, one step ahead of the Templars, and three of us to raise in the finest traditions of the Havard family._

She still remembered the shock of meeting a human without red eyes - she'd thought _all _humans had red eyes, except for her father and his odd brown eyes. Her mother's family - the few she'd met - all had eyes of crimson, after all, as did her mother and brothers. The blue eyes of the man in his metal clothing had frightened her, and she'd sent flame at him and ran away.

He hadn't been alone, so she'd been caught. Pausing for a moment, she looked up at the constantly looming Black City, remembering her final breath, Jorath's face above hers, his vow to never lose her...

_Ah, and with a Dreamer, anything is possible, is it not? _Even as a child, Jorath's power was tremendous, as with all those who could walk the Fade at will without the crutch of lyrium. _And your powers were triggered early, when our brother was murdered in front of you._ A giggle bubbled forth. _Poor Mother! Remember when you walked into the dream she was having with Father? Ohh, she had to explain a few things very quickly to you then, and not just sex!_

Jorath groaned. _I wish you wouldn't keep reminding me._

She laughed gaily and proceeded on her way, slowing only when she entered the perfect example of the Brecilian Forest and found a path she was obviously supposed to follow._ I suppose Slothy has arranged some nasty little surprise for you,_ she mused. Stifling yet another giggle, she concentrated as she called up her brother's form and melted into it so as not to ruin her own surprise for Slothy too early, then strode forward with Jorath's determined stride.

Sure enough, she rounded a corner to find two Templars, both with half their armor off, one grunting and thrusting and swearing on top of the young woman beneath him. _Hmmm, not a bad likeness of me, I suppose. I'd like to think my hair's a bit more red, though. Now, Slothy, where is the twist you always put into these little dreams of yours?_

"More!" the red-headed woman cried, even as the second man fell to his knees and fumbled his cock from his smalls, setting the tip into her mouth and grabbing her head to push the hardening length into his mouth.

_Hmmm... if I were Jorath, how would I respond? He can't do what he did last time, in Thedas - the whole killing-me-with-fire thing._ Indeed, the fireball unleashed by the enraged Jorath had killed both of the Templars raping her, but it had also washed over Narinia and sent her spirit to the Fade, away from her burnt body. Only when Jorath had gone to the Tower had she been able to communicate with him again across the Veil, and it had been years before she'd convinced him to release his guilt.

_Such a _good_ brother._

She watched as the figments of Slothy's imagination continued through their emulated throes of passion. If she concentrated hard, she could recall what she had felt at the end of her life, and the pain of the assault on her body after they'd Holy Smited her into near oblivion first. _Of course, not _all_ Templars are monsters. Predators wear all kinds of uniforms and skins. Still..._ She strode forward, trying to emulate her brother's persona, and brought the memory of a staff to bear. "Release her, curs!"

The Templar currently mouth-fucking her started up, allowing 'her' to speak to 'him' directly. "Oh, brother, why should they?" She shuddered in a fairly credible imitation of an orgasm as the Templar at her lower half gave a final grunt and thrust, obviously reaching his own climax. "Ah, don't drive them away! I've only finished one so far!"

_Ohh, clever little demon - that _would_ have driven Jorath into a tizzy._ She felt his rage inside her even now. Luckily, she'd gained a different perspective in her death. Fighting the urge to giggle - especially because they'd gotten her voice _completely_ wrong, she pretended to hesitate. "But... but they were hurting you! I know they were!"

"Oh no, brother!" 'Narinia' shrieked playfully as the second Templar, need still throbbing and evident, grasped her and pulled her up, pushing into her from behind, presumably to make Jorath agonize over the view. "Ah, no! I mean, yes! More!"

_Hmph. She's getting worse at pretending as time goes on. _With a small shrug, she flicked the staff to point at the first Templar and sent a sheet of ice over him, targeting in particular the joints, nose, and mouth. If it wanted to persist in the illusion of human form, it would need to deal with the illusion of human death - and thus become vulnerable to her true attacks. "I... I don't think this is what I should be seeing."

"But of course it is! Instead of a great tragedy, my time with these men is - ah! - a time of joy! You don't have to hurt them, or me, and then we can go home to Mother and you won't be the child who killed his sister!" She warbled a patently fake cry of release as the still-silent Templar pulled the false Narinia down hard and groaned. "Won't it be marvelous?"

The real Narinia laughed in response, at the same time pointing the staff and unleashing a prison designed to hold even demons in its grasp. The chorus of fake pleasured sighs turn to small screams and shrieks of pain, and she staff-tapped her way to the entrapped demons and gave them a tight smile. "Enough is enough. Your antics are getting tiresome, and now I'm bored."

The illusions melted away, revealing the angry demons for what they were: two hunger demons as the Templars, and a desire demon as herself: surprise, surprise. Laughing, she took her time dispatching them, a punishment for daring to try to make light of her death. When she'd sucked up the last one into the staff, she grinned as she dwindled back into her own form and ran a hand through her long hair of flame - a literal description when she was in the Fade. "Well, let's find the others, I suppose. Right?"

Deep in her mind, Jorath whispered, _Right._

.~^~.

_Tiresome. I'm actually beginning to empathize with that idiot Slothy._ It had become quite the dull routine: slay and suck, suck and slay, as the weaker denizens of the Fade obeyed the command of their betters to beat her - well, her _brother,_ really, but the distinction wasn't particularly important as they kept falling before her. It had served _some_ purpose, at least - since she'd gained access to parts of the Fade supposedly unavailable to mortals, and was able to help those who were like she had been at first: trapped, scared, and at the mercy of the demons, without the benefit of her training and heritage. She knew Jorath didn't understand _why_ she helped those poor souls, but as long as she kept looking for the others, it didn't particularly matter.

She paused and readied her staff as another creature came into sight, a- _Oh! This one is human. _Tilting her head, she sent her wisp over to illuminate him, making him look up and bat at it ineffectually. _An _embodied_ human. So, not Zevran._

_Niall!_ The longing in Jorath's voice was palpable.

_I thought he rejected you, said you were too dangerous or some such nonsense._ She hummed an old tune from early in their family's history, something about the Gods of Silence and Flame. Before Jorath could answer, she came to halt next to Niall and said, "Hello!"

He jumped, distracted from the wisp, and looked at her a bit wildly. "Who are you? Are you another demon?" He took in her appearance, with her fiery red hair barely contained in a tie and eyes of flame set in a face pale as the moon. The black widow tattoo on the bridge of her nose, twitching in the presence of magic, did nothing to discourage a conclusion of _demon_, either. It wasn't _exactly_ what she'd looked like in life, but then, the Fade had a way of influencing its inhabitants, even ones with such strong minds as her own. She still preferred it to the final journey to the City, though... particularly since she knew what lay on the other end.

"Nope, not a demon. You knew my brother, though." She batted her eyes and preened at him. "Jorath."

He stared at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. "I- I thought you were just-" He made a vague gesture with one hand.

"A figment of his imagination? A sign of incipient madness?" She sighed dramatically. "A pity you didn't believe him, you know. You were the first person he told, and it made you run for the hills. _Too dangerous,_ you said, when you meant, _Too mad._" She tossed her head. "Well, I'm here, and I'm real, and he hasn't told anyone else since, so I hope you're happy."

He wilted under the onslaught. "Well, you have to admit it does sound... odd, claiming to have your sister in your head."

"He didn't say _that_, he just said- Oooo, I'm not going to argue with you. There's more important matters to deal with." With a short nod, she said, "So, I need to take care of Slothy. Where can I find him?"

"Sloth- You mean, the demon who's trapped us here?" He blinked. "Ah, I'm not sure. All paths are blocked, so far as I can tell. I will be here for all time, I fear. I assume my body will die soon, at least."

Narinia flipped a hand. "All right, so you're not a great help. I guess I'll just figure it out on my own." With a shrug, she turned and left the confused mage behind, ignoring her brother's entreaties to return. _Just because you had a crush on him doesn't mean he deserves your attention. Do you really want him to be your Lily?_

_That_ shut him up. The insouciant fawning of Jowan over the vapid, Chantry-loving twit had been a common complaint of his, even though he had fostered the relationship himself as an opening gambit for his eventual leaving the Tower. Granted, he'd hoped to be sent to Aeonar, so he could just escape from his guards en route, but Duncan's intervention, though initially unwanted, had led to... several good things.

"Yes, we'll find Zevran next," she promised. She'd already found something hinting at another place where Slothy had attempted to hide. Spinning, she slipped through the crack in the Fade... and found herself in a dank, dirty dungeon. "Hmm, maybe he's thinking of you already," she teased.

_Take my form, _he urged, the odd mixture of the emotions he felt towards the assassin tickling her immensely. Whereas Niall was the longing of a boy for his first, still-not-completely-crushed crush, his view of Zevran was far more tempered and uncertain. After what had happened in his life, she'd assumed he'd never be able to care for anyone - except her, of course, but she hardly counted - and his duty would drive him to an early grave, Blight or not. But the assassin... Well, _she'd_ developed a fair crush on him, and couldn't help but wonder if it was from her brother, and if it would become more.

She did as he bade, modifying her Fade form into so she would appear to be him. _Still don't want Zevran to know about me?_ she asked airily. _Afraid of the competition?_ Moving forward, she heard groans of pain and the snapping of whips and could barely suppress a giggle. And then, finally, she found Zevran.

_Ooo, he's tied to a rack!_ She watched, fascinated, as the demons taunted and tortured the elf, noting how the assassin reacted, and tapped her cheek idly with a finger. _I thought you said he enjoyed pain._

_That's not important right now. It's more likely the demons are interfering with his mind, making him believe he's a young, vulnerable boy again._ An image scurried through Jorath's mind, but she couldn't quite capture it.

_You're thinking about _him_ again, aren't you?_ She fought the urge to stamp her foot, using the irritation to swing her staff around. _Stop it! _She stepped forward, hoping to draw Zevran out of the demon's control before killing them. Minds of the embodied were such _fragile_ things, sometimes, and she assumed Jorath would like a _sane_ lover at the end of this. "Zevran?"

One of the demons immediately spoke, interfering with her words. "I think I saw him flinch that time."

"Maybe," the other one replied, reaching to grip the wheel. "We'll make you scream yet, apprentice."

The first 'guard' grinned in an overly dramatic fashion. "We're not going to go easy on you. Trust me."

_By the Silent One, they're just as bad at acting as the other ones. Surely Zevran won't-_

"No, I... wouldn't want you to... hold back," Zevran replied. Oddly, his voice sounded different: younger, less sure of himself. She frowned, and realized he did look younger, a teenager rather than a full grown man. "I'd be disappointed if you... did," he gasped, even as the wheel began to turn, ever so slightly pulling the ropes which held him.

She again opened her mouth, and again a demon overrode her. "This one has spirit. It's a shame we have to break him."

"Oh, for the love of Silence and Chaos! Can't you at _least_ not sound like a-copper-a-play villains?" Granted, it wasn't something Jorath would have said, but she just couldn't take their horrible acting anymore. "Zevran, are you all right? Not too many bones out of place?"

Now the assassin registered her presence, and he blinked slowly at her- well, at _him_, since she looked like her brother at the moment. "What? What are you doing here?" She felt the first ripple assault the spell cast on him, as his mind struggled to reconcile Jorath's presence with torture from years before he had met the man. "You're not supposed to be... here..."

She took a deep breath, listening to Jorath for suggestions on what to say. It was important Zevran believe she _was_ her brother, for the spell to break cleanly, without harming him. "Think, Zevran. You've broken out of my spells and suggestions before. I've helped you with this." She reached out and touched the elf's leg, grimacing at the clumsy spell which nevertheless ensnared him, though she saw the ripples as his mind buffeted against it. "Snap out of it. You're in the Fade. This is just a trick."

"I can't." He closed his eyes and lay his head back, his voice losing a hint of the maturity it had shown when he'd acknowledged her. "I need to stay strong. This is my test-"

"Yes, it is," she snapped, suddenly switching to Jorath's lower voice rather than his Tower, effeminate voice. "And you're failing."

He jerked, causing the ropes and chains to rattle. "That voice... But- I have to prove I can tolerate... pain."

She chuckled, a deep low chuckle Jorath used only in very specific circumstances. "Oh, trust me, I am quite aware of the extent of your tolerance. And your ability to inflict it as well." She ran her hand up his leg, under this armor, and found something very familiar from all those times of spying on her brother at night. She squeezed it just enough to remind him of the _other_ kind of pain. "But these demons are not the ones you need to convince."

"Demons?" He shuddered, both at those words and at the touch. "I-" The ripples pushing at the spell from within were turning into waves as the spell started to break up.

"Oh, I think he's questioning us!" One of the guards said, obviously trying to re-establish the illusion. "That's a very, very bad thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, he will be severely punished!" the other demon chimed in, but it was too late: the spell broke, leaving the two demons exposed as the frauds they were.

"Hunger demons. Why am I not surprised?" she said as she whipped around her staff and blasted one with a fireball. "It takes a certain kind of appetite to enjoy this sort of thing."

"I quite agree," Zevran muttered as he sliced expertly at the second demon. Once the spell had broken and he'd regained his mind, the ropes and chains had ceased to be an impediment and he'd quickly joined the battle, daggers in hand, The demons went down quickly, as did the lesser denizens when they leapt from nowhere to attack them. Eventually, after a few fireballs and well-executed dagger thrusts, they were alone, surrounded by death and mayhem.

Jorath surged forward in her mind, taking control of the body long enough to seize the elf and begin devouring him in a passionate kiss, driving him back until he was pressed up against the torture rack. Bemused, and aware of the rather strong impulses to which her brother was often captive, she allowed Jorath to continue. After all, it's not like she _objected _to his actions.

The elf returned the fervor, his hand rubbing through the robes and trying to find something more effective to squeeze and manipulate than cloth. She'd been a clandestine participant in his little sessions before, of course, so the physical sensation was nothing new, but she was quite tickled at the flutter in her brother's - well, _her_ - stomach as he groaned. The sensation of his lust was also familiar, but since he had taken control, it felt a bit dim and distant. Still, it was a sensation she'd never had save through pain or proxy, and so she added a moan of her own as Jorath picked up the elf and pushed him flat on top of the rack. Answering to her brother's wishes, she manipulated the Fade and formed certain items from the air, smiling as chains and ropes settled around Zevran's hands and pulled them back, leaving the assassin in quite the vulnerable position.

"Let me remind you," Jorath grated through gritted teeth, hands stripping away Zevran's armor, "of the proper use of pain, shall I?"

The assassin gave a token struggle, though she suspected he was just making sure he could writhe freely without worrying about the ropes breaking. "I believe we've- ah, had this talk before." His body shuddered as Jorath ripped away the sad excuse for smalls Zevran wore most of the time. "Although, I am... always up for additional discussion on the subject."

"I can see that," Jorath chuckled, teasing and scraping with his nails. "Yes, I think it's fair to say-" His hand paused and squeezed, fingertips digging in beyond the point of pain for most, "-it never hurts to revisit a subject." Following actions to words, he bent down and applied himself, teeth and lips joining fingers and nails as the 'conversation' continued, eliciting a twitch and faster breathing from the supine elf.

Narinia watched, fascinated. During the journey through the Tower, with its death and blood and never-ending supply of demons to snuff and suck, she'd only been able to observe at a distance the affect those stimulants had had upon her brother, but she hadn't realized how desperate he was for release. _Apparently the interlude in Irving's office wasn't _quite_ enough._ Of course, she'd been nosing around in that old biddy's head for most of their trip through the damaged Tower, and Wynne's rather uninformed assumptions about her brother hadn't prepared her for the raw fervor he now applied as assiduously as his lips and teeth to Zevran. The Fade stretched and thinned the experience, but it was still far more than she'd really _felt _in quite a few years. She tried to let Jorath maintain control, she honestly, really did, but she just... wanted to feel that hardness herself, too, and she knew there might never be another opportunity.

She assumed Zevran felt the difference immediately when her form shifted back to her own - her hair fell across his thighs and lower stomach, after all - but the only overt response from him was a heavy groan and additional bucking of the hips. Taking the reaction as approval, she pulled up and then began nipping her way up his torso, cursing softly when her robe interfered with her movements. With a shrug she dismissed the errant clothing before clambering onto the rack and lowering herself down to rub her torso against his chest, wrapping her thighs around his length and squeezing tightly.

His eyes were quite wide now. "Wh-who are you?"

She giggled and leaned down, finally able to do all those things she'd been wanting to do to him. Her lips and teeth bit along his jawline to his mouth, and she felt his hips buck sharply upwards as her fingers sought and pinched his nipples. Grinning, she claimed his lips and began to kiss him like Jorath would, one hand reaching back to ensure his shaft was at the proper angle. As she released his lips and slowly began easing herself over him, she whispered, "You should ask Jorath when you're back in the waking world again."

Jorath muttered something about _mischief making_, but she ignored him as Zevran closed his eyes and groaned. "Maker!" And, for a while, there were no words. Moans and shouts, yes, but no words. All the coiled emotions Jorath refused to admit to were uncoiled here, with her, in the Fade, and the pain diminished before another sensation entirely.

At least, until he released. Then they both received a nasty surprise as he suddenly spasmed and faded away, leaving her rather the next few steps beyond discontent on the rack and cursing Slothy strenuously as she regained her footing on the ground and snatched up her discarded staff.

Oh, it would _pay._

Ignoring her brother's laughter, she stormed out of the secluded little pocket of the Fade, more determined than ever to put that damned demon in his place. It wasn't until she ran into the next group of demons when she remembered to form her robe around her again.

.~^~.

She kicked Slothy's body one more time, then stuck her tongue out at it and turned away. "There!"

Wynne sighed. "You are... quite different from your brother, Narinia. It does seem rather-" The contortions the woman had to go through to make it sound as if she would miss Jorath's sister was extraordinary, and Narinia watched in fascination as the old mage finally said, "-unusual to see siblings so very different from each other."

"I suppose so. But then, you never met our brother."

"No, but Jorath mentioned him. You were close?"

She stopped and considered the question. The oldest of the three of them, and the death that hurt their family the most, Thariel's death was not something she was prepared to discuss with a relative stranger. If Jorath wanted to, fine, but she would not air the family laundry in front of others. "...It was a long time ago." She looked at Zevran, who had occupied himself with cleaning his daggers, an oddly useless thing to do in the Fade. "You'll both be going back soon. I can't leave the Fade, not really, so..." She went to Wynne and offered an enthusiastic little hug, knowing the woman would have to return in kind.

_You probably took out more of your irritation at Zevran's disappearance on her than necessary, _Jorath noted mildly.

_Tough. I'm a huggy person, so I hug, even if I don't like you._

_I remember,_ he said quietly. _I miss those hugs._

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. For all that they were constantly in each others' thoughts - save for when he sent her on those rare, unusual scouting missions such as with Wynne - they hadn't actually been able to share something as simple as a hug since he was young. _Me too._

Blinking rapidly so that Wynne wouldn't see the tears, she forced a bright smile on her face and patted the woman on the cheek as she drew back. "Goodbye! It was fun!"

She turned away, and gasped as she almost ran into Zevran. Her hands landed on his shoulders for balance as she looked down slightly, eyes wide.

He chuckled and tilted his head. "What, no hug for me? I am crushed."

The coil had returned inside, wrapping the heat and other emotions tightly in its grasp. Had she been Jorath, the poor elf would have received a perfunctory embrace, one designed to hide emotions from both of the men. Still, as she'd noted... she was a huggy person. "Like I'd miss the chance!" She tried for a friendly embrace, not particularly _intimate_, given that Wynne was present, but apparently the elf had other ideas.

One of his hands slid down her back, then farther, squeezing tightly enough to make her gasp again. Ignoring Wynne's sigh of disapproval, the opportunity of her open mouth was seized upon, and she found herself in a passionate kiss far more demanding than anything she'd felt from him in his times with Jorath. Thanks to Kaavith and what he'd done to Jorath, her brother, always and forever, had to be the master in any sexual endeavor, refusing to be helpless or even the weaker of the pair. She had thought Zevran enjoyed it - he certainly seemed to enjoy succumbing to the sometimes exotic demands made by Jorath, as if the elf instinctively understood the underlying fear and self-loathing which drove the seemingly self-assured mage. Granted, the assassin seemed just as willing to accept those moments of extreme sensuality as much as he did when merely applying the lotion and then turning around, but... there was more underlying the kiss with which he strove to possess her than could stem from one intense interlude in the Fade.

When he finally pulled back, her hands were wrapped around the back of his neck, and she found herself looking into his eyes with a growing heat in her cheeks. "Just tell me," he pleaded quietly, "this is not the last I will hear of you."

She licked her lips, trying to collect her scattered thoughts, but before she could respond, a waver seemed to pass over the battlefield, and he was gone.

Her fingers touched her lips, and she felt the same shock ripple through _her_ as Jorath started to get tugged away again. Dimly, she heard his short, sharp comment.

_We'll discuss this later._

And then she was back in a familiar part of his mind, the odd mixture of his body and soul, where she normally spent her days. The Fade was fun to visit, but not to live in - even for a Dreamer - and even the small, fleeting glimpses of life she saw through Jorath's eyes were better than endlessly roaming through the Fade alone.

_...Weren't they?_


	6. Home, Sweet Home - Chapter 4

_**A/N: **This is the fourth part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"_

_._

_._

Chapter 4 of **Home, Sweet Home**

_Time to Die_

.

.

Jorath reached down and hauled Zevran none too gently to his feet. When he had the elf, still groggy from the sojourn into the Fade, somewhat stabilized, he hauled him in for a kiss. It was less a kiss than staking a claim, anger and possession and frustration encapsulated in a meeting of lips and tongue. He felt the odd, unexpected tightness in his chest ease slightly when the assassin responded as he had before, readily accepting the mage's attentions without protestation. There didn't seem to be anything missing, or lacking, but...

Abruptly he pushed Zevran back. "I'm glad you survived intact. Non-mages usually don't do well in the Fade." He looked to Wynne, who was holding her hand to a temple and massaging it. "Truthfully, even mages often have a difficult time withstanding its oddities and drains. You did well." _And somehow you _still_ don't understand what I am. At least the demons served as sufficient distraction against that discovery._

"Ah, high praise indeed, coming from you," Zevran laughed, hands reaching up to smooth an errant strand of hair back into place.

Jorath's eyes returned to him, considering. The light tone, the easy smile, the gleam of appreciation... it was all there, but... He shook his head. _Not now. I'll deal with it later._ "Come. We wasted enough time with that fool Sloth demon's petty antics." Pivoting, he moved from the chamber, letting the tap of his staff fill the room around him with the comforting, familiar sound. _All goes to plan. Everything is going as it should._

He ignored the obvious silence emanating from where his sister's normally bubbly personality resided. _I'll deal with it later,_ he repeated to himself.

The mantra served him well as they continued through the Tower. His energy was far more restless, more demanding, and, it had to be admitted, more _violent_ than before. All foes fell before the trio, even the Revenant he'd never before personally encountered, though Mother's Book had, naturally, detailed it and its weaknesses. His mood was so bleak and dark that when the creature appeared, he didn't bother _fighting_ it - he simply used his odd mood to shove his staff into the damn thing's chest and rip out the soul trapped within, banishing it to the Fade with a snarl.

He did manage to pull back from his darkness enough to attend to the matters arcane dictated to him by his blood and his duty, preparing for what was to come following Uldred's inevitable death. He missed nothing: each scrap of paper taken and examined, each hidden panel studied and opened, each secret explored and exposed. He _would _banish this curse from his bloodline. He _must_.

Still, they were getting closer to Uldred. He could feel the darkness growing stronger, the despair darker, and he looked forward to getting rid of the man so he could get his true work accomplished and then leave, never to return. As he pushed through into the next chamber, however, he found something a bit different waiting for them. Encapsulated by a white cage of shimmering magic, a man in Templar armor knelt, his muttering voice echoing off the walls of his prison and turning the words into gibberish - or perhaps his words were gibberish in the first place.

Curious, he moved forward and touched his staff to the white wall of energy. The chamber rang with a resonance tuned to make Wynne and Zevran both wince, and the Templar raised his head sharply, falling back from his knees onto his backside. "What- You! Another illusion, perhaps?" He shook his head, even as Jorath strove to match face to name. "Another game, another gambit. I won't fall for it."

"Cullen?" he ventured at last. _Yes, Cullen - the one who held a sword at my Harrowing and dared think he might need to use it on me._ He pushed the thought aside as quickly as it had arisen - this man was no more to blame for the shortcomings of the system than Wynne was. A hapless participant, nothing more.

"No, it's a trick," the Templar muttered. "I know what you are, and it won't work. I will stay strong..."

For a moment he was tempted to ask for his sister's opinion, but stopped short of actually speaking with her. He hadn't spoken with her since emerging from the Fade. _Later._ He glanced at Wynne as she came to his side. "A Templar. It appears he's still mostly intact as well, unlike the others." He dipped his staff forward to touch the white barrier again, and the room this time rang as if a large crystal had been struck. "Fascinating. I could break this, given time, but I hardly think the effort to be the best use of our resources."

"The boy is exhausted," Wynne said, sympathy in her tone. "He's obviously been fighting against an enemy far beyond his endurance." She reached out to the white light, but didn't quite touch it. "And this cage... I've never seen anything like it." Sending him a sidelong glance, she remarked, "And you think you could break it?" The doubt that might once have been in her voice didn't surface, replaced by a wary respect.

"No barrier is impenetrable. They differ from one another only in how much time and effort one wishes to expend in overcoming it." Squinting slightly, he said, "A couple of hours, for this one. More, if I wanted him alive."

She blinked, then looked back at Cullen. "Rest easy... help is here, my poor boy."

"He certainly looks like a _man_ to me," Zevran interjected. "And fills out the armor quite nicely, as far as I can tell."

"Enough visions!" the man cried. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this _game!"_ He moaned and took his heads between his hands, falling to his knees as if in pain. "You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake... for theirs..." He gasped. "Filthy blood mages..."

Biting back a chuckle, Jorath looked past him and noticed the bodies scattered like dolls within the circle of the barrier. _Hmm... he's stronger than I thought to endure what he has._ Still, time continued to move apace. He interrupted the man's ranting. "Entertaining as your self-pity is, I rather think I would prefer _useful _information. Like who is still alive up there."

The Templar staggered to his feet. "Still here? But-"

"Just tell me what I need to know. I really don't care about anything but getting rid of Uldred at this point." _A useful lie, that._

"Please, Cullen," Wynne pleaded. "Is Irving alive? Is anyone alive up there?"

"I-" He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at them again, as if surprised they were still there. "I b-believe so. Uldred took them all to the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there..." He hung his head. "Oh, _Maker."_

Jorath nodded, unsurprised. The Harrowing Chamber was magically tuned like a lute, and even as lazy a mage as Uldred would be able to take advantage of its properties. Of course, if what Jorath had learned from his mother was _accurate..._

"We must hurry!" Wynne declared, the hint of Irving's continued existence restoring some of the snap to her voice. "They must be in grave danger, I'm sure of it."

"You can't save them," Cullen said harshly. "You don't know what they've become."

Wynne glanced at Jorath, who remained silent as he scrutinized Cullen. "You can't know that," she said, voice soothing. "The mages of this Tower-"

"Yes, the mages of this Tower!" Cullen spat. "The very ones who you try to paint as the victims are the ones who are also the villains! Why should I trust _any_ of you?" One gauntleted hand slammed into another. "Those you seek to save have been surrounded by blood mages, whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts."

Again, the older woman looked uncomfortably at Jorath, who saw the question in her eyes. He'd destroyed all the demons they'd come across, and been as ruthless with the maleficarum they found as any Templar - more, perhaps - but he knew she would not stand at his side if he were not Irving's last, best hope. Turning back to Cullen, she again tried to comfort him. "Don't paint us all with one brush. The pain is clouding your mind, confusing your-"

"Do _not_ presume to judge me, mage!" he lashed out. "I am thinking clearly - for perhaps the first time in my life!"

"Congratulations," Jorath drawled. "You've learned that the only truth is pain, and what comes after. I'm proud of you."

"What? No, I-" The Templar shook his head. "No, it's not the pain, it's seeing mages for what they truly are, which is one breath away from a maleficar at any point in time."

"Hmmm. So I'd presume you'd like to thrust that big sword of yours into all the maleficarum?" He didn't bother to hide his grin as Zevran snickered.

"If it would make Ferelden safe and fulfill the will of the Maker, then yes!" the man said fervently, eyes fey.

"Then I guess all Templars are one breath away from a murderer at any point in time. Thank you for the reminder." His eyes narrowed. "And don't tell me killing in the name of the Maker isn't murder. The blood of a child and the blood of a maleficar are the same, spilled on the ground. You had better damn well make sure you know who is guilty and who is innocent, or be prepared to live with the blood of those innocents on your hands when you meet your Maker." _If he was still alive._ "If your epiphany calls you to slaughter the few indiscriminately in favor of saving the ignorant many, I'd rethink it. After all, is that not what the mages are doing to the Templars? Does it feel like justice? Or revenge?"

Cullen took a step back, then frowned. "No. You won't twist this with clever words."

"Fine. Have it your way. You'll be free soon enough, so I'd suggest you start sharpening your blade. There are several children downstairs - when you're free, perhaps you could start with them. They could someday become maleficarum, after all."

"That's not what I-" He stopped and scowled, shifting his heavy armor with a shrug. "Of course I wouldn't kill children. What kind of monsters do you think we Templars are?"

_The kind to kill my brother and sister simply because we weren't safe behind the walls of some prison somewhere. _Around him the air flared red as the thought made his eyes glow like crimson lanterns, and Cullen fell back again. "The worst kind of all: ones lauded as heroes."

WIth a shrug, Jorath turned to his two companions. "We've wasted enough time here. We know where we're going and what is awaiting us, so let's move it." Putting the Templar from his mind, he turned to the staircase leading up to the Harrowing Chamber and put into place a tight-lipped smile which had very little to do with pleasure, or at least, the sort of pleasure most people would recognize. As he mounted the stairs, he wicked away a bit more energy from his staff, ensuring that the gems in his robe and under his skin were fully charged. The spider tattoo between his eyes shifted position slightly in response to this magical priming. Smile still on his lips, he reached for the door and pushed it open.

.~^~.

_Yes. This is what I expected._

Uldred was in the middle of a Turning, tjhe clumsy process of using coercion to create an Abomination. The smile quickly turned into a sneer of disdain at the man's heavyhandedness. _If you can only make an army through the use of the unwilling, then perhaps you shouldn't even bother, old man._

_He's an odious old toad,_ his sister declared hotly.

_Quite._ It wasn't much, but the odd little exchange meant that, for now, the siblings were willing at least to talk, regardless of whether or not they would be able to settle the matter of the elvish assassin without some ranting and screaming.

_We've done that before,_ she pointed out, her voice oddly shy. _Maybe we could skip over the nonsense and get straight to the laughing at foolish idiots part? _He hesitated, and felt her withdrawal at the small hesitation. _I'm sorry. We... we do need to talk. Later._ He felt just the faintest hint of a kiss on one cheek, and then her 'presence' dissipated, leaving him feeling alone.

Well, not _alone._ Left to his own devices which, as he took his staff from its resting place on his shoulder and pointed it at the new Abomination, meant attending to business without her sometimes _finer_ sensibilities interfering with what needed to be done.

Uldred turned around with a start as his newly created minion disappeared in a shower of blood and purple skin. "Who dares?" The flash of surprise followed by utter dread on his face as Jorath tapped his way forward was worth all the tedium involved in reaching the top floor of the Tower. The older mage's eyes narrowed as he calculated the ramifications of Jorath's appearance. Predictably, he began with bluster. "Well, well, the prodigal returns to the Tower. I never thought to see you again, once you gained your freedom."

_"Hoped_ to never see me again," he corrected smoothly. Ignoring all others in the room, including the abominations and the cowering mages still left physically unchanged by events, he began to walk in a slow arc around the center circle where Uldred stood. "I seem to recall our last meeting didn't end quite as you'd like."

The man's face locked in a snarl. "Most mages would accept an offer from their superior with rather more perspicacity than you."

_"Most_ mages are fools," he said dismissively, ignoring Wynne's sound of discontent. _"Most_ mages spend their lives either trying to justify themselves, or trying to vindicate their magic. I've no need for either. Waste of time and energy." He stopped at the edge of the central design set in the floor, letting the tip of his staff fall on an unblemished stone circle, one of four all joined to form another, more subtle circle. _As I thought._

_He didn't even bother to check!_ Narinia said gleefully.

_More the fool, he. A round stone pattern at the top of a Tower which has housed hundreds of mages over the Ages, and he doesn't think to wonder at the oddity._ Carefully he began to feed a tiny stream of magic from his staff into the ancient circle in the floor, tugging and pulling at the lingering spell and bolstering it for his own use. As he did so, he struck a casual pose and sneered at Uldred. "You, on the other hand, have transcended foolishness and galloped headlong into imbecility. Demons? You haven't the wisdom to understand their nature or the strength to resist their wiles. You only sought power." He snorted and leaned his staff back on his shoulder, attempting to look as defenseless as possible, while Narinia traced the circle down into the stones below, curious how deep they went.

"And power I found!" Uldred's expression reflected his supposed triumph. "You would do well to remember what you passed through to reach this point. Granted, knowing _your_ nature, my pool of servants has likely been greatly diminished. Pity." Jorath saw his struggle as he fought to overcome the surprise of Jorath's arrival and the hidden implications of his words. "Still, better to die in service to their betters than endure the terrible responsibility of independence."

_Don't let him get too relaxed,_ Narnina warned, voice faint. _We can't afford to let him notice what you're doing. There's definitely a prison down here, but I can't tell if it's occupied, and there's a focus right above it. Any magic cast in here will feed it._

_I'll distract him,_ he assured her_._ "Independence? That's rich coming from a slave. First to the Templars, then to your ambitions, now to the demon whispering in your ear." He rubbed at his nose, the stench of _pride_ annoying.

"You know not of what you speak!"

Jorath barked a laugh. "You are a small, small man, Uldred. Small of mind, small of heart, small of..." He allowed his voice to trail off and glanced down, pointedly trying to see what lay concealed by mere cloth. "Well, at least that's what Kaavith told me. Thankfully, I've never myself been forced to endure it."

Even as Zevran choked back a laugh, Uldred summoned a ball of lightning from the air and threw it at him with a wordless scream of rage.

_Well, there's one rumor confirmed,_ he thought idly, bracing himself for the impact. His defenses were well in place, of course, but it had to _seem_ as if he were helpless...

And, of course, Wynne interfered. Amazed as he was that she had managed to restrain herself for so long, he felt the shimmer of her magic protections encapsulate him even as a bolt of light shot past and intercepted the lightning - with very pretty results, if one had the mind to view it in such a manner. _For the love of the Night-_

Along with the lightning bolt, abominations surged forward, and Uldred turned to one of the nearby cowering mages and began another Turning ritual to force a demon into him, desperately making more servants. Wynne and Zevran quickly stepped forward, engaging the attackers as smoothly as if they had been fighting together for months rather than mere hours. And Jorath, taking advantage of the fact there were now several sources of magic being spun, turned the trickle of magic leaking into the stone below into a steady stream which quickly activated the nine points of power arrayed around its perimeter. _Nine points... Avvar work. Interesting._ He'd found a similar circle at the head of the stairs leading to the basement during his carefully constructed rebellion with Jowan, but hadn't done more than ascertain it was still whole and functional. _Something is being held in the Veil, imprisoned between the Fade and Thedas... I know what lies on the ground floor of the Tower, but what is trapped here?_

Ignoring the screams as another mage's transformation into an abomination was accompanied by Uldred's cackle, he pushed his mind further into the stone, using precious seconds bought by the efforts of Wynne and Zevran. He suspected the demon inside Uldred was due to make an appearance soon - his companions were skilled, but they couldn't fight the abominations _and _Uldred, leaving the man unscathed while he concentrated on his task. As usually happened when he needed to analyze magic quickly, Jorath took in all possible information in one swift glance and instantly decided on a course of action. Even as Uldred began to swell into immensity with a roar, Jorath's eyes flared a red bright enough to reflect on the ground. Bringing his staff up, he swung it in a circle around his head, invoking a spell simple in principle: the removal of demons from their hosts. It was a spell unique to those who could walk the Fade freely, those called _Dreamers _by ancient tradition, and the red eyes - the mark of his mother's ancestor - ensured he had the capacity and, more importantly, the _training_ to control those demons.

For in his family, unlike any other, Dreamers were born at least once a generation - sometimes more - forcing them to live apart from all others. The power represented a curse and a blessing both, ensuring their survival while necessitating their distance from all others. Only those strong in mind _and_ magic, who survived the siren call of the demons while they slept, were allowed to reach adulthood. His first Harrowing had been on his seventh birthday, under the critical eye of his mother as he struggled with the demon she had summoned, and the blade had been as ready in her hand as the sword in Cullen's fist had been later.

The effect of his spell was immediate: outside of the circles set into the stone and thus outside the limited protections granted to Uldred alone, the target of the spell, the abominations, shrieked and collapsed as his will ripped the demon from the human with little regard for either. Wynne choked and backed away from the twitching heaps of flesh remaining afterwards, the human aspects of the abominations spasming and moaning with agony in the thankfully brief life left to them after the forceful separation. Zevran shuddered, but still moved forward and drove his daggers into the writhing forms of the partial demons, not questioning the _how_ for the moment as he attended to eliminating any possibility of attack.

These actions were peripheral to Jorath's focus, of course: he concentrated on the man and the demon within the circle he'd summoned, their separation far more gentle than the others due to the protections he'd woven into the circle. Slowly lowering his staff so he could lean upon it, he smiled and moved forward, into the environs of the circle, and felt the chill of the Fade envelop him. The Veil was torn, and his power held the chaos beyond it in check.

For the moment, at any rate.

Narinia gasped and popped up through the floor, shadowy and dim, but still present, still discrete. "Oh!" She held out her arms, turning her hands over. "Ohhh, it's just a partial opening." She pouted. "I thought with all the magic in the focus..."

"I haven't touched _that_ magic, sister." It felt... odd to talk to her, outside of his head or the Fade, but at least here, in an area now inundated with Fade energy, he could approximate a face-to-face meeting. "And I can't keep this rip in the Veil open for long. Is there a prisoner below?"

She shook her head. "It was breached. Whatever was held in there is long gone." After a moment's hesitation and a glance at the man and demon struggling against the crushing prison Jorath had constructed around them, she looked back at him. "It _was_ one of _them_, though - I could taste it in the remnants of magic left behind. Father was right. The Avvar trapped two of them here. Kinloch Hold must have been a containment system for them."

"And only one remains," he muttered. _By the Fire and Night, I'd hoped..._ "No matter." The floor trembled as the pride demon renewed his assault on the prison, and Jorath glanced at it. "How tiresome."

She moved to him, putting her ghostly arms around his neck, though he felt nothing but an intensification of the cold of the Fade. "Let me have the demon. You have to restore the Veil anyway, and pride demons avoid me now in the Fade. It's been a long time since I've gotten to play with one."

He smiled and lifted a finger to lightly rest on the spider tattoo between her brows, ignoring the cold as it began to creep up the digit. "I miss you, sister."

"And I miss you." There was more to say, but he felt the circle weakening - even with the power he'd fed into it, it couldn't hold the Fade within it _forever,_ and he didn't particularly want to deal with the consequences if the carefully controlled tear he'd created spread beyond his grasp. "Consider it a gift, even if I'm still irritated at you."

She giggled. "You can't stay irritated at me for long, you know that." She danced back and twirled gracefully until she faced the demon. "Oh, we are going to have _such_ fun." Her hands reached forward and pushed into the demon as Jorath dismissed the spell imprisoning it, and the howl of anger turned into a keening of despair as she dragged it across the Veil and into the Fade.

_It won't take long, but oh! I've forgotten how _delicious_ a pride demon is!_

Smile set on his face, he raised his staff once more and moved it in a wide sweep above his head, in the opposite direction from the first iteration. The Fade and Thedas separated once more, the Veil closing seamlessly as his mother had taught him, and he brought his staff down to crack sharply on the floor. Only then did he dismiss the prison around Uldred and lower his gaze to look at the man.

The older mage lay gasping on his stomach, staring up at Jorath in confused horror as the young mage walked slowly to him. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Wynne at Irving's side, arms wrapped around him as she used the dregs of her magic to heal and comfort her old friend. Mentally he shook his head. _What a waste._ The maleficar at the root of the catastrophe for the Tower tried to crawl away, but Jorath slammed the point of his staff into the man's back, pushing down and twisting until something gave with a resounding _crack_ and his legs stopped moving. "Trying to go somewhere?" he asked, the question almost drowned out by the man's screams. "I think not."

He released his staff, which stayed upright and embedded partially in Uldred's back, and moved to kneel next to Uldred's head, removing the small knife dangling from his belt. Uldred's eyes widened and he started struggling again as he saw the small blade, and Jorath smiled. "So it _was_ you who gave this to Kaavith. I always wondered, you know, why I found my mother's blade in his keeping." He reached down and deftly cut at where the man's left earlobe joined to his head, slicing through the soft flesh. "Dabbling in the dark arts for longer than anyone knew, hmm?" The knife flashed, slitting the same place on the opposite side of the man's head. He held the hilt up for inspection by the man. "There, see? The jewels in the hilt are starting to fill up." Indeed, the previously obsidian stones on the hilt were already a faint red. "Let's see what it takes to turn them into rubies."

"No!" Uldred reached for the implement, but Jorath quickly pulled it out of reach. "You've no right-"

"No right? I have more right to this than you had to turn those men into an abominations. I have more right to take your blood than you had to start this insanity in the first place." He reached down and cut open a nostril, smiling as Uldred's hand tried to cover his face. "Ah, did I distract you?" Gripping Uldred's chin, he hauled it up sharply. "See this?" he asked in a quite yet deadly tone. Touching the metal to his own face, he traced the scar underlying the burn scar, starting above his eye and going all the way to his chin. "This was a gift from Kaavith the day I killed him. A task you gave to him, did you not? _Select your best student and rule him._ Couldn't bear the thought I might someday grow up to overshadow you?"

"He was _weak,"_ Uldred snarled. "He couldn't even take you out as a child. What use was he to me?"

Jorath leaned lower, and dropped the glamour that kept his tattoo static. Uldred's eyes widened as he saw the spider move, legs undulating ever so slightly with every pulse of magic that went through the knife. "Kaavith was an opportunity to regain what rightfully belonged to my family." Uldred paled. "Oh, yes, I'd been looking for this blade for a long time, ever since _someone_ killed my mother and took it as a prize. Amusing that if not for you killing her, I might not have come to the Tower. Fate has an interesting way of working out, doesn't it? I should thank you for returning it, if indirectly, and I will." He grinned. "By using your blood to help me fulfill the task binding it to _my_ blood, and granting me freedom from its curse." Quick as a snake, his hand lashed out and severed the second nostril, though he kept a firm grip on the chin. As the man shrieked and desperately covered his face with his hands, he said blandly. "I'm glad we had this little talk, Uldred. Enjoy your sojourn in the Fade, with all those lovely angry demons waiting for you, hmm?" With that, he took the knife and stabbed it sharply downwards, knowing it had absorbed enough magic from the mage's blood to slice easily through any material, including bone.

Uldred died in an instant, a far cleaner death than he'd earned but better suited to Jorath's current needs than the effort a proper revenge would have required.


	7. Home, Sweet Home - Chapter 5

_**A/N: **This is the fifth and final part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"_

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Chapter 5 of **Home, Sweet Home**

_Time to Live_

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He released the hilt, noted clinically that he had placed the blade as intended - at the precise center of Uldred's forehead - and let the man's limp body collapse to the floor. He glanced to where Irving and Wynne had managed to get to their feet and walked over to them. Once within reach, he took Irving's chin in his hand and turned it from side to side, considering.

"Thank you for your assistance, young man," the grey-bearded man said after Jorath let go of his chin and started to turn away, "but what was that about? I assure you, I'll feel much better with some rest. Thanks to you, I have a few years left in me yet."

Jorath glanced back at the knife jutting from Uldred's forehead, the stones on the hilt slowly turning a brighter red, then looked at Irving and smiled, relieved now that part of the burden was lifted. _No more lies, sister,_ he vowed and, for the first time in the Tower since setting foot in it, he used his true voice, the deep voice of his family. "I was only deciding whether you would serve me better alive or dead. Fortunately for you, you serve my purposes far better as First Enchanter than as a corpse." His eyes moved to Wynne. "Get him down to Greagoir and let the Knight-Commander know I will be with him shortly, after I take care of some business." He took a step towards Uldred, then stopped. Looking over his shoulder at their shocked faces, he added, "Oh, and I would recommend that you move the children elsewhere. I will require the use of the space they currently occupy. And remember: no matter what you may think of my methods, they worked when your own did not. Once I leave this place, I will never return. Ponder that, if you will, while discussing the Tower's newfound freedom from abominations with Greagoir."

Dismissing them from his thoughts, he walked over and grasped his staff, waiting for a few seconds to make sure Wynne and Irving had time to leave the room. As he stood there, he felt a hand slip around his waist, and looked down at Zevran.

"I don't know what you intend to do," the elf said quietly, "but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with the madman. I never knew you lost your mother in such a manner. I am sorry."

He fought the urge to shrug it away, alerted to something deeper by the elf's tone and shading. "She died because he coveted a magical artifact she carried."

_I wish you believed that,_ his sister whispered softly in his mind. Involuntarily, his face twitched.

Zevran noticed, of course. He was trained to notice weaknesses, and in a target such as Jorath, when such opportunities arose so rarely, even the slightest break in his facade was clear as glass. "You blame yourself." His tone was surprised.

He took a deep, steadying breath, quickly checking behind them to make sure that they were alone - well, except for the corpses, naturally. "The woman you saw in the Fade." He could almost feel Zevran's attention sharpen. "My sister, Narinia. She... she was, like me, a..." _a Dreamer, but you do not know what that means. _"...a mage, a powerful one. I was but eight when she perished."

"So she is... an actual person, and not... another aspect of you, then?" He glanced at the elf, surprised by the odd comment. "Forgive me, but there was an instructor with the Crows. An absolutely brilliant man - as harsh as all of them, of course, but extremely effective as Crow and teacher both. Yet, he had an oddity. As a teacher, he was one of the most genial, agreeable men you could ever encounter, but when he was on the trail of a mark..." He grimaced. "It wasn't that he suddenly changed personas, but that he became a different person. In this case, a woman, though his body did not change. A ruthless, cruel, sadistic woman - even his voice pattern changed which, i can assure you, assassins are trained to notice. I had to accompany him on a mission once, and could not believe the alteration. Careful questioning later revealed that this was one of the worst kept secrets of the Crows." He shook his head. "I... I suppose I admit I assumed that the woman was... akin to that, but in the Fade alone. Yet if she is your sister..." Arm tightening around his lover's waist, he said, "Please, continue."

_That's an odd idea,_ she giggled from within. _Can you imagine how crowded it would be in your head if you had a separate facet for each persona you've used over the years? I wouldn't be able to move without kicking someone!_

He wanted to smile at her comment, and knew she was trying to distract him, but he looked at Zevran and realized that of all those currently in his life, this man deserved to know some of the truth. "At the time, my family lived in the Brecilian Forest, after my brother's unfortunate run-in with some Templars. We avoided the Dailsh and stayed ahead of the Templars - or so we thought. Mother had been instructing me in the magical arts for a while, and had just begun my instruction in poisons and poultices. She asked Narinia to fetch some components. A short while later, we felt her magic in the forest and ran to her assistance."

He still remembered that run through the Forest, fear and anger warring in his mind.

"She'd been found by some Templars who had apparently been on our trail for months. Ten of them, though only four were alive when we arrived. Mother crashed through the brush and alerted them to her presence before she saw them, and two of them incapacitated her. The other two..." He looked up at the ceiling overhead, feeling the anger wash over him once more. It was much like it had been in the Fade, save that Narinia cried out in pain rather than ecstasy, and those memories were still too fresh to describe in detail. "They were restraining Narinia. I was so angry, I just... I attacked them. They died instantly." He sighed, his hand moving up and down the staff. "So did Narinia. Later, when the dead were buried, Mother refused to speak with me, or even look at me. When I woke on my ninth Name day, she was gone." Grip tightening, he called magic from the blade sunk in Uldred's forehead and woke the staff, preparing the sacrifice. "I found her body a month later, killed with magic, our family's blade gone." He looked at Zevran. "You may want to step back."

Zevran did so, albeit reluctantly, a curious look on his face.

Jorath took a breath. The instructions in the grimoire he'd found in his mother's belongings were very specific about the preparation of the sacrifice. _Clean straight lines: four on the head, one from the forehead over the skull and down the back, and four radiating lines to the limbs. It must be clean and quick, or the spirit will not be held._

Gathering the magic from all his accouterments and tapping the reserves within, he nodded, and, in one motion, pulled out his staff and held it in both hands in front of him, shaping the very air itself into the sharpest blade imaginable of blue light, akin to lightning but completely under his control. He carefully made the cuts as the ritual specified, then, in one swift motion, used yet more magic to hold Uldred's skin in place while he pulled the insides out.

Dropping the mass of skeleton, flesh, and organs to the side, he quickly hunkered down next to the skin, checking for tearing or marks, and smiled when he found none. Carefully he folded the skin, then rolled it into as compact a bundle as he could, using Uldred's robe to store it until they made it back down to the ground floor. Once that task was done, he retrieved the dagger, pleased to observe that the stones in the hilt shone bright red, as predicted by his Mother's grimoire. Tucking it carefully into his belt, he reached down and hefted the bundle, putting it under one arm before retrieving his staff and turning to Zevran.

The elf's face was pale. "Ah, that was... a new experience." Jorath watched the elf's face move through multiple emotions as he worked through the instinctive horror that resulted from watching a man get skinned, but didn't have time to discuss it. Besides, the moment of vulnerability had left him feeling restless and itchy.

"We don't have a lot of time," he said. "Remain here if you like, or join Wynne down below."

The elf nodded, his smile wan. "I think... perhaps it would be best if I did the latter. It sounds as if you are about to embark upon a venture in which i would be of little use." He swallowed harshly. "Until later, then."

Jorath watched him dash to the stairs, emitting a slight sigh. _Ah, well. Perhaps he will return to the Crows, after all._ He ignored the cry of protest within, uncertain whether it arose from his sister or himself - or both - and headed towards the stairs, feeling the minutes spill away from the time of Uldred's death to the time by which the ritual had to be fulfilled.

Quickly he headed to the ground floor of the Tower, pausing only long enough to drain Owain's life force and bolster his flagging magical reserves. Finally he arrived at the room where the children had recently been protected by Wynne and her spirit. He noticed with an approving nod she had taken his advice and cleared the room, leaving just him and the sealed door leading below. He chuckled to himself as he noticed the wards and bindings on the door were much improved compared to his last visit.

_They finally figured out that not all their students are idiots,_ Narinia remarked with a snort. _All that blathering about two keys and dreadful traps and all that useless trickery!_

"Yes, well," he said with a smile. "It might be a little harder now. It looks like they've sealed it completely." With a shrug, he set his staff down and pulled the dagger from his robe, then walked around the area above the stairs leading to the basement. The blade's warmth increased the closer he got to the stairs, and he stopped when it suddenly flashed red-hot for a split second. Quickly sheathing it, he knelt and unwrapped his gruesome bundle, throwing the blood-saturated robe far to the side. Arranging the skin in a macabre imitation of a man lying at rest, he made sure the head rested at the exact point where the knife had flashed red and the feet pointed towards the door below, the oldest portal in the Tower. Once the skin was prepared, he carefully inserted the blade into the hole in the forehead where he had stabbed Uldred, digging the blade's tip between the flagstones so it would remain there, and stood.

Retrieving his staff, he walked around the skin, mixing an odd sequence of tapping with his staff in with words from his Mother's grimoire, a dialect of Tevene so old that, so far as he knew, only those of his bloodline still spoke it. In his head, Narinia murmured along with him, adding to his power as best she could, reaching across the Fade and establishing the link they would need for the denouement of this procedure.

_"Formless One, I summon you_  
_From your empty grave, I summon you,_  
_From your restless death, I summon you."_

After the third line, the skin twitched ever so slightly, and a surge of triumph rose within. _It works._ He continued the ritual, not losing a beat of breath or tap of his staff.

_"Formless One, I name you,_  
_Denizen of the Beyond, I name you,_  
_Helpless, Weak, and Bereft, I name you._

The skin started to expand, puffing up as if something - or some_one_ - were slowly filling it once more.

_"Formless One, I call you,_  
_To meet your better, I call you,_  
_To meet your doom, I call you."_

Just as the skin became fully formed - though it did not, in _any_ way, truly resemble Uldred - he cracked his staff down to complete the Binding of the Three. A circle of bright red light suddenly appeared around the skin, created by the constant and seemingly erratic pattern he had faithfully and carefully executed around the one he had pulled from the very foundation of the Tower - or rather, the Tower's predecessor, the Shrine of the Forbidden Ones. Built after the Fall of Arlathan but before the March of the Prophet, by the worshipers of beings that had, according to legend, originally taught the 'magic of the blood' to the inhabitants of Thedas, it had succumbed to time and the vagaries of human and elven memory. Even the Alamarri eventually forgot, building the Tower over the long-forgotten shrine and worshiping the wolf and the moon instead of the spirits of old.

Yet the family who had first built the Shrine did not perish, and its final scion, descended from the line of Dane and Havard, among others, now stood facing one of its former masters, waiting patiently as the figure writhed and tried to pull its head up from where the dagger pinned it. Finally, it ceased its attempts to escape, instead looking around with a restless red energy which burned through the empty eyeholes until it found Jorath standing patiently nearby.

_"Scion of Dane," _it rasped in the ancient dialect, _"I order you to release me."_

He flinched as the _need_ to obey the words washed over him, but the compulsion was dulled by both blade and circle, and the rest, his will could handle. _"No,"_ he replied in kind. Setting his staff to rest on his shoulder, he wrapped both hands around it. _"I brought you forth from your slumber so you could release me and mine from our ancient service to you."_

An eerie bubbling sound issued from the flapping lips of the head. _"You are impertinent, worm. The oaths your ancestors swore-"_

_"-are as any other contract, and no longer apply," _he pointed out. _"Elvhenan and its Creators are long gone, the Old Gods will soon join them, and even the Black City stands in testament to the Maker's indifference and foolishness. Thedas no longer requires the faint knowledge that superior beings exist, particularly if those 'superior beings' are no more than old spirits grown tired of the endless banality of the Fade."_

A hiss of anger escaped from the supine being and it began to struggle, though the movements were noticeably weaker than before. _"You insult me, yet ask a boon of me? How dare you!"_

_Why do they always end up sounding like a moustache-twirling villain in a-copper-a-stage play?_ Narinia mused.

_It must be something about extended exposure to the Fade,_ he replied blandly.

_Oooo, you- If I were there, I'd whack you so hard!_ Still, there was humor in the voice, and he smiled as things seemed to settle so gracefully back to 'normal' between them. _Well, you'd better show him the stick. I don't think he really understands what you did._

_Likely not._ He took a half step closer, fixing his red eyes on the swirling, seething red energy within the skin. _"The longer you delay, the more likely it is you will return to the Fade - permanently. The Formless One you were, but now you have a form, for I have given you one. Release my bloodline from the curse it has labored under all these years, the curse of Dreamers and dreams, the curse of Corypheus, and I will send you back to your slumber rather than forcing you to return to the place you hate above all else."_

The movement below him stopped, and he knew the Formless One was examining his macabre 'prison' thoroughly, verifying the truth of Jorath's claim. _"The dagger... it's the same dagger we used to bind your line to us in the first place."_

_"Your weakness, imbued with energy from not just your hand, but from the hands of all the Forbidden Ones. Imshael has already met his end, spitted upon its steel, and I could do the same with you... but I give you the option to free me as an alternative to roaming the Fade for eternity with no more power than a Wisp. I could always simply kill you and find Gaxkang. I already have a fairly good idea of where he's hiding."_

The body shuddered: clearly the threat held weight. _"Very well. Dismiss the barrier and hold the dagger in your hand."_

Jorath snorted. _"I am no fool." _Positioning himself at the thing's head, he gritted his teeth and forced his hand through the barrier. It was similar to pushing it through a tunnel of nails, much as it had been with the maleficar in the library, but pain was an old and familiar friend: a bit inconvenient at times, but better to keep close than far away. His hand wrapped around the dagger, and his blood flowed down and across the rubies, reviving their flagging color to a brilliant red.

_"Ahhhh," _the figure breathed, and Jorath bit back a chuckle at the nearly orgasmic pleasure in the drawn-out syllable. _"Yes, just like that."_

Suddenly a tingle swept over his hand where it met the blade, then traveled like a flash up his arm, ripping through his body like lightning and ice. He gasped but held on, recognizing the feeling of a curse being ripped wholesale from him. Narinia cried out, and he could only assume it was having a similar effect on her, save perhaps in a more direct, and painful, fashion since it was her soul alone which would feel the effects of the odd 'cure'.

A timeless few moments passed, and then a weak voice said, _"It is done. You are still as you were, a Dreamer, but you will no longer be driven to hide, to run, to remain a step ahead of those who would seek to use or control you. The souls of your scions will be pulled from the Beyond without purpose, without pain, to be thrown to the vicissitudes of fate without the burden of the Maker's death upon them. Your reward for listening to us, your punishment for succumbing to the Old Gods, is at an end."_

_"The dreams?" _he demanded harshly. This would all be for naught if he were driven mad by his thirtieth birthday, as had all other men in his bloodline: old enough to breed the next generation, young enough for his own children to be lose all innocence when they buried the knife in his chest when the time came. The world could ill afford another insane Dreamer after what had happened in the Golden City.

_"The winds of the Black City and the sight of the empty Throne will no longer haunt your sleep, and the cries of Andraste will fade over time. The link between your line and Corypheus is broken. You are free."_ One of the hands reached up garishly to grip his wrist. _"Now send me to my slumber."_

Jorath laughed. _"Gladly."_ Viciously, he twisted the blade rather than pulling it out. At the last instant before the being was obliterated, it screamed its fury at him, but it was too late. He threw his head back and emitted a guttural groan of his own as the rush of the death energy and magic poured into him through the blade, filling him to overflowing with the incomparable energy of a spirit: the truest, purest form of magic known to Thedas.

Narinia had also dissolved into throes of bliss. _Ooo, this is even better than sex!_

_Zevran..._ Slipping the blade into his belt, he stood, healing the cuts on his arm with but a thought since he needed to do _something_ with all the excess energy around him. _It would be even better _with_ sex._

_If he'll talk to us..._

The wistful comment made him stop in his tracks. Realizing she was probably right, he sighed and retrieved his staff, burning the horrid, vacated skin to ashes with a carefully controlled fireball. As he undid the steps which had created the circle to make it harder to trace what he'd done, he lost himself in the count and the sequence of the numbers required to banish it completely. Once he was finished, he leaned on his staff and stared at nothing, a subtle melancholy gripping him. "It was fun while it lasted, I suppose."

"What was fun?"

He turn, startled, as the familiar accent echoed through the room, and couldn't help the grin that came over his lips at the sight of the blond Antivan standing in the archway leading to the room. "Not what I had to do just now, I assure you. Either here, or above."

"Oh, I figured that out," Zevran said with a wave of his hand as he moved towards Jorath. "I just thought I had better check on you. And... well, it occurred to me..."

"Yes?" Jorath asked as the last of the circle faded. "Go on."

"Well, it occurred to me Irving and Greagoir and Wynne are doing much talking and discussion, and soon there will be Templars and mages and who knows what else about. And I recalled you said you had some new, better memories you wished to make with me here."

His hands tightened around his staff. "I-" It's true, he _had_ said something similar in passing, but... he felt the coil within, holding so tightly to his emotions, fears and uncertainties, and wondered if he could do something so simple as create a happy memory, even with this man.

_I could help._ The internal suggestion was soft, hesitant, but sincere. _You know I'd do anything for you, brother._

He bowed his head. Here, outside the Fade, outside the possibility that his sister could indeed take Zevran from him, the foolishness of his earlier jealousy was more obvious. Yet, it still lingered.

Zevran stepped closer, reaching up to smooth his fingers down Jorath's face. "I know what it is to need a pleasant distraction after a day full of blood and terror and pain." He held up a familiar bottle of lotion, a grin on his face. "Even if it is only a few minutes - or a few hours, knowing you - let us christen this place with something rather more pleasurable than blood and tears, yes? And perhaps along the way, you could formally introduce me to a charming young lady who simply makes you that much more intriguing."

It felt... simple, pleasurable... unreal, based on his past experiences in the Tower. The curse was lifted from his family, yes, but there was still vengeance to seek against Gaxkang, and a Blight to end, and... and... and a skilled hand had moved from his face to stroke another part of his body entirely.

_Pleeeeease?_ Narinia asked pathetically.

"I can't argue with both of you," he groused, then roughly pulled Zevran close, initiating one of those kisses which verged on the border of devouring. Blood was brought to the surface of skin, then released, but he paid it no mind as he pushed Zevran mindlessly back against the pillar.

He could not admit to what he felt for the assassin beyond raw _need_, but for now, it would suffice.


End file.
